Where Words Fail: Book 3: A Test of Faith
by TEi Has Pants
Summary: While Ba Sing Se may be behind them, Smellerbee and Longshot's trials are far from over. Their next stop in their travels: a swamp rife with spiritual energy...
1. Book 3, Chapter 1

_**Where Words Fail**_

**Book Three: A Test of Faith**

**Chapter 1: When you see their heart-shaped graffiti around, you know someone, somewhere, is crying with a Uki-Uki-Waku-Waku feeling!**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This story is a fan fiction - nothing more, nothing less. It has been made purely for entertainment purposes, and is not meant for commercial gain. Avatar: The Last Airbender and all characters, places and concepts are copyright of Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. All original characters are copyright their respective owners and are used with their permission. The story has been illustrated by the talented and awesome SioUte, and this chapter's cover can be found here:

sioute(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/WWF-3-1-136439967

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_Now_

Standing at the fringe of the swamp, Longshot craned his neck back so he could better absorb the green, bushy canopy spanning overhead. A small frown lighted on the corners of his mouth, and his brow furrowed. Something about this place didn't seem right - didn't fit quite well with him. The real kicker - the real break in the bow string - was that he couldn't figure out _what_, and it was on that grounds that Smellerbee insisted they cut through the swamp rather than skirt around it.

"I don't care," she grumbled, frustration edging into her voice like a chipped dagger. Sitting on the ground with her legs folded and a map of the Earth Kingdom splayed over her lap, Smellerbee's eyes flitted from one landmark to the next. She prodded one spot with her finger, the paper crinkling beneath her touch. "If we take the long way, we risk running into the Fire Nation brigade that's heading over to Ba Sing Se to reinforce the first invasion team; while I don't think a squad every now and then will be a problem, I don't wanna fight like half an army of 'em." She thumbed her chin with her hand before running a curved line around the dense, dark-green splotch (looked suspiciously like a stem of broccoli) on the map she'd been poking at before. "Not to mention we tack on something like an extra five days if we go around rather than through; I dunno about you, but I'd prefer to get to Omashu sooner rather than later."

Longshot crossed his arms over his chest but kept his gaze on the trees, wandering to the darkness between the gaps that felt ominous enough as to swallow the Freedom Fighters and their ostrich horses whole. A distant pressure built up and throbbed in his temples; couldn't Smellerbee feel it...?

When the younger Freedom Fighter didn't answer, Longshot risked a glance over to her, only to see that she had stood up and turned away from him entirely. Instead, she busied herself with folding the map up and slipping it away into the supplies on the back of her mount, tying them down to the saddle still draped with the symbol of the Earth Kingdom - a golden circle with a square of green inlaid directly in the center. The two of them had done away with the ostrich horses' armor, though; they went for a handful of gold coins at a small town between Ba Sing Se and here, and it left the creatures much more fleet-footed.

Seeing as how the swamp would be mired with all sorts of squishy, unstable terrain, this could not be a bad thing.

"We were forced off the road anyway, remember?" Smellerbee scowled into her bedroll, drawing the ropes around it, tight enough to keep the supplies in place. "The Fire Nation is using it while they move into Ba Sing Se. Even if we do go around the swamp, we'd have one side open to attack at any given time. We didn't escape Lake Laogai to do something that stupid, and I'd rather take on whatever wildlife this place has to throw at us."

Longshot sealed his lips and nodded. She had a point, and he would rather avoid having to eat a fireball sandwich if it could be helped...but there was no denying that this bog exuded enough Spiritual pressure to make him feel uncomfortable. It reeked, too - like Pipsqueak farts after eating a plate of Ba Sing Se curry, a pungent odor he missed only when _thinking_ about his old friend, its nostalgia lost as soon as the stench slapped your nose upside its head. Even from here, at the swamp's edge, humidity stifled him; he loosened the neck of his tunic to quash the lurking sensation of suffocating. He could hear horse flies buzzing, raccoon frogs croaking - all sorts of indigenous life that would invariably find their way to the pair of teens.

The Freedom Fighters, as a whole, had never been the most spiritual of people, and Longshot sympathized with that mindset. Still - the Spirits existed, and they liked the mire the archer and the swordswoman were about to traipse through. Smellerbee wouldn't hear an ounce of that, though, so bothering to bring it to her attention would be a futile gesture. Sighing, Longshot turned to what was left of their camp. Best to just get this done with, he figured.

"Hey, if you want to go around, feel free." Smellerbee interjected, sensing his reluctance and striking. It had been like this ever since stopping in that grove outside Ba Sing Se a couple days ago - him keeping mostly to himself, her lashing out at him in response, and he couldn't figure out _why_ any of this was happening. Longshot bowed his head and focused more intently on breaking camp and preparing for the journey ahead of them, causing Smellerbee's ire to rise even further. "I'm not gonna force you to stick this out with me if you're uncomfortable. I can go through and I'll meet Pipsqueak and The Duke ahead of time. We'll wait in Omashu for you."

Despite the fact that she wasn't yelling, Longshot winced, feeling the verbal razor sliding across his skin. As the morning sun clambered lazily towards the midday zenith, he remembered his intent from the other night - the unsaid words that Smellerbee picked up on so easily, _always_ so easily, and the thought of her lying there - drenched, hair choked with sand, and pale, so pale. It made him scowl again.

She'd abandoned him - she had _not_ abandoned him - but, she _had_,regardless of the circumstances...no, no! She couldn't help it, she - argh! The dichotomy was going to drive him insane if he let it, and he could only take so much irrational guilt; what better way to stave off madness than to dive head-first into an asylum? He gave a slow, clear shake of the head and finished cinching up his share of the supplies. He crouched down on a sunbaked patch of dirt and picked up his bow and quiver, slinging both around his back; using the palm of his hand to sweep away the telltale signs that something had been there, he brought his gaze to Smellerbee and fixed her with a somber expression. She didn't need to worry. He'd stick by her regardless - he wouldn't abandon her.

He flinched, realizing how scathing and blunt that had sounded - but if the swordswoman picked up on it, it didn't show.

Smellerbee - still preoccupied with preparing for the journey - turned her attention upward. For the first time since they'd left the cave at Lake Laogai, Longshot could see the exhaustion on her face; her eyes hid in shadows not caused by their frame of moss-brown hair or her headband, the bags underneath apparent despite the liberal application of mascara. She still had a drawn appearance to her from starving and dehydrating while in the dungeon, and although her face had started to fill out and become rounded again, he could still see her cheekbones.

"Good to know you're coming along, then," she murmured, turning her attention back to her saddle. "I'm almost ready to go."

Longshot sighed and shook his head - no point in trying to fence with her on that one. He stepped into the stirrup and hauled his leg over, plopping down into the saddle. He grabbed the reins, and when Smellerbee had mounted her ostrich horse, flicked them - urging the beast forward, into the skunky, murky bog looming ahead, the pressure at his temples and nape of his neck increasing.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_Then_

"To another successful raid!"

"YEAH!"

Longshot leaned backwards on one hand, thrusting the other up into the air, coddling an adobe cup full of a sloshing liquid which had the color of a polished ruby and gleamed just the same in the flickering torchlight. Jet's toast - the precursor to another one of his flamboyant, charismatic speeches - had gone heralded by all Freedom Fighters, and although Longshot's cheer remained unsaid, his gesture - raising the cup high above his hat - was all that needed saying.

The regular dining hall had been the victim of the storm that had torn through the forest a few days prior; the winds had been so vicious that it ripped a branch clean from a tree and slamming it hard into the dining platform, crushing the table and bringing the platform's integrity down to nil; Pipsqueak had yet to give the clear on using it again, and so, in the meanwhile, the cafeteria in Skillet's kitchen served as their eating space, packed to the brim with all nineteen Freedom Fighters. The booze, when combined with all of those bodies crammed so tightly into one space, made his face hot, his back slick; on all sides, the beige-gold wood flickered and danced with the lanterns hanging from the walls and ceiling, casting undulating shadows across the entire room. He could smell the food, though - a delicious, spiced turkey chicken, a sharp, tangy aroma that made his mouth water. He set his cup down and picked up his chopsticks, plucking at his meal.

The archer glanced away from his leader as the shaggy-headed boy built up momentum. Although Jet's voice rung in his ears, weaving an incredible story of the raid on the Fire Nation camp - of the reason why tonight's meal was so special - Longshot only picked up dull, thrumming muffles, as if his leader spoke through a thick veil of cotton. No, his attention had already been drawn elsewhere - to _her_, with cheeks already flushed from the ruby-colored liquid, a grin plastered on her face.

It was about then that summer decided to club him upside the head, its heat spread across that of the fire water and his friends; he tugged at his collar, and (perhaps it was because of the drink) he swore a puff of steam whistled up from beneath the fabric. Longshot craned his head back and chugged the contents of his cup to distract himself, to focus instead on the searing _inside_ his body as the liquid slithered down his gullet and into his stomach. That balanced it out, at least, and as Jet continued to weave his story, Longshot gave a low, throaty cough, thumping his chest with his free hand.

Jet said something - the booze further skewing Longshot's perception, but for once that was okay - and Smellerbee rocked backwards, laughing that laugh, that raspy, rambunctious laugh of hers that reminded him that, yes, she still was a kid at heart. He took advantage of her distraction and sidled closer to her, the girl's heat compounding with everything else and yet radiating through more powerfully than any of the others. The swordswoman still had a sharp air about her, even while drunk, and spotted Longshot moving from the corner of her eye. She turned to glance at him; her cheeks burned ferociously, almost hiding the stripes of crimson war paint, and her eyes shimmered just as the surface of his fire water had.

Looking into those eyes - big and warm and friendly instead of cold and razor-sharp, like the tips of her knives - they were magic, somehow, beautiful almonds that glimmered in the torchlight, and his cheeks tingled as an unmasked smile pulled up on his lips. Smellerbee laughed - _snorted_ and laughed! - just as another cheer rose up into the superheated cafeteria air, so nobody else would be able to hear it except him, a gift for his ears exclusively.

"Longshot, you look hilarious when you're buzzed." She punched him in the shoulder hard enough to send him rocking, bumping into Skillet; his grin widened, and he slid one hand up to his forehead, wiping away the sheen of sweat that had percolated.

The moment became engrossed in the hours to follow; the night turned into a blur of laughter, cheering, and enjoying the company of others, until their numbers dwindled. Midnight had long since passed by the time only seven of the Freedom Fighters remained at the eating hall; himself, Smellerbee, Jet, Pipsqueak, The Duke, Sneers and Skillet. Jet's grandstanding had long since come to a close, and the teen slouched back against a support beam at the head of the table, observing the argument ("debate" was too sober a word) unfurling between his friends, barely able to hide the amused grin hanging slipshod on his face.

"I just don' get how you can do it." Sneers' voice slurred, bludgeoned out of its usual verbal articulation thanks to repeated abuse of the whiskey keg at the back of the room; other than that, though, the normally lucid monk seemed unhampered by the drinks he'd downed throughout the course of the night. He pounded one fist against the wooden table, a curious frown wriggling across his jaw, making the long-emptied plateware clatter. "Livin' a life without the blessin' of the Spirits? They're everywhere, from th' water, to th' forest, to your li'l chubby hide; not to mention, without no Spirits, there'd be no bendin'."

"It's a scientific impossibility," The Duke countered, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his head away. The irony that the youngest remaining Freedom Fighter had decided not to imbibe warranted - what Longshot assumed through his haze - was a dopey, warm grin from the archer. "Give me an hour of your time and I could explain both why the sky is blue _and_ why rain falls while inventing an explosive powder that can substitute for blasting jelly."

"Snot-nosed brat."

"Arrogant monk."

"Without th' Spirits, we wouldn' be here," Sneers insisted, his face flushing. "No bendin' - no Firebenders. No Freedom Fighters. Y'ever wonder why th' Forest's leaves stay red all year 'round? Can your science explain that?"

"Yes." But The Duke - cute and probably the smartest of the entire lot if gauged by pure factual knowledge - had a terrible poker face and didn't look nearly as confident as he tried passing himself off to be. Longshot felt a snicker tingling up past the throbbing rash of pain in his throat. Still, the boy kept up his aura of indignance, grumbling a muted, "You couldn't explain why the sky is blue, I bet."

"Th'r's no such thing's Spirits!" Smellerbee protested loudly, jolting Longshot; the tomboy, who had passed out in a small, growing puddle of her own drool, bolted upright with one finger jutting straight up into the air. The entire left side of her face was slick with saliva, her war paint smudged; her eyes refused to open all the way, and the combination left her with the unsettling semblance of a zombie. "Cen't be. 'Simpossible."

"What, are you also a scientist too now?" The monk affixed Smellerbee with his customary, trademarked namesake, but Smellerbee shook her head and gave a gurgling laugh, bringing her finger down and thrusting it straight at Sneers.

"Naw. Jus' don't b'lieve in 'em." Smellerbee smirked, swaying a little bit as she spoke, and even through his own muddled senses, Longshot could smell the whiskey hot and raw on her breath. "An' that tr...trum...ffffucks up anythin' you gotta say t'_me_. S'my 'pinion - means I'm right, yer not, an' yer face looks like a hogmonkey's ass."

"Low, but accurate," Skillet admitted, shrugging and grinning. She downed the last of the shochu from her chipped, glistening shot glass; sighing, she leaned back in her seat and ran a finger across the table, her lips peeling back in a wicked smile, revealing white, shining teeth. "What stance to take here...on th' one hand, I _do_ actually believe in Spirits...but on the other hand, Sneers' face bears a remarkable resemblance to a hogmonkey's hindquarters. Hm. Decisions."

"Stuff it in yer ear."

Skillet shifted her weight forward again, leaning on the table with one elbow and clasping the back of her chair in the other hand; smirking, she said, "You're just jealous, Butt-for-face. That _some of us here_ can actually choose what we believe in. You - you were _raised_ with that crap, but Smellerbee an' The Duke an' whoever got their own free will. You're shit outta luck, sister."

"B'sides," Smellerbee mumbled, groping for - finding - picking up the wood chalice she'd been nursing and taking a swig. "Th'world ain't pretty 'nuff fer Spirits."

Well..._that_ was sobering. Longshot took another pull at his scotch (he'd switched away from that glistening, ruby drink from earlier in the night) and coughed. She had terrible mood swings when drunk - she knew that, right?

The swordswoman snickered, her lips peeling back as she grinned. "Fair 'nuff. Wha' 'bout you, Squeakers?"

Pipsqueak - who had, like Jet, remained unopined during this exchange - simply let a wide grin cross his broad jaw. It stretched from one end of his headgear to the other, the corners of his mouth obscured by it, a red flush scrawled across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose; he looked about as plastered as Bee, but his wit didn't seem any duller for it. He shrugged his massive shoulders and said only, "If they're real, they're real; if they ain't, they ain't. _'Que sera, sera;'_ it means, _'Whatever will be, will be.'_"

Longshot nodded; he appreciated Pipsqueak's stance most of all because of its simplicity, and because he wasn't being as stuffy about it as the other Freedom Fighters had been so far. (Not to mention - and Longshot only admitted this to himself - that being sloshed actually made Pipsqueak a much more acute philosopher.) But it yielded a question, and the archer turned his attention to the only (other) one who had been silent since the topic came up.

Jet - sensing Longshot's attention on him, and that of the other Freedom Fighters as they followed the archer's gaze - shrugged, smirked, and threw his hands out behind his head. The stalk of wheat in his mouth bobbed as he chewed on it, thinking of an answer to the topic; he craned his neck back, looking up at the ceiling, at the support beams criss-crossing the building.

"Spirits, huh...?" He mumbled, melancholy overtaking him. "I dunno. I kinda agree with Smellerbee; what greater being would simply stand by and let the Fire Nation continue on their rampage on the world? The world is an ugly place, and I can't wholly believe in a God-like entity that turns its back on us so willingly. But I'd be willing to change my mind if I ever got to meet one face-to-face...you know, just so I could smack it around a little and wake it up."

He laughed - a calm, reserved laugh that set Longshot at ease. The booze had left his leader contemplative, rather than self-destructive as it had for Smellerbee.

"Then..." Sneers drew a slow breath before continuing. "What if th' Avatar ever returned...?"

"The Avatar?" Jet shifted his weight, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. Meeting Sneers' gaze with a grin, the leader of the Freedom Fighters furrowed his brow. "Now that would be a story to tell, wouldn't it...? Show me a person who can bend more than one element and I'll show you a man who believes in Spirits."

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_Now_

Longshot liked to believe there was a Spirit for Irony, and that none surpassed her in her craft; in the presence of the master, one could either join in the merriment with their own ostentation, however unimpressive it would seem compared to the Spirit's, or they could simply stand back and nod appreciatively as the Spirit struck with an accuracy more true than the archer's astute gaze. Never were these strikes personal; the Irony Spirit only struck as she deemed appropriate, and if she chose to appear in your life, then the best option was to simply take it in stride and, if you weren't too prideful, to laugh along with the mirthful phantom.

(For reasons Longshot couldn't quite place, every time he envisioned a possible physical form for the Irony Spirit, he imagined her carrying around Skillet's cast-iron namesake. He didn't have any idea _why_ that came to mind, but it fit too perfectly for him to care.)

So, allowing himself a smirk, the archer thought back to that night and how, not six months later, the very same Avatar Sneers had brought into question stumbled onto that Fire Nation campsite and made himself an ally of the Freedom Fighters. Later that same evening, when Jet had a moment away from Aang and his friends, he turned to Longshot and shrugged, saying, _"Well I'll be damned...I guess the Spirits really __do__ exist, after all."_ Longshot felt the ghost of a smile tugging on his lips as he appreciated the Irony Spirit's handiwork.

Humidity pressed in on all sides, sweltering and stifling; flies and mosquitoes hummed songs into his ears, and no matter how many times Longshot swatted them away, there would always be more to take their place. His forehead, back and armpits had gone sticky with sweat, and every breath came out hot and stuffy. A knot had tangled up in his forehead; the pressure he'd felt at the swamp's edge continuously expanded, thrumming and buzzing more noticeably the further they trekked. It wasn't debilitating as much as it was annoying, and he would often find his hand drifting up to his brow in a subconscious attempt to rub the knot away.

Like he'd figured, the ostrich horses struggled with the inconsistency of the ground; they made decent time over the solid bits, but once they hit a mud bank or a river, their pace slowed as they slogged onward, their expansive, scaled feet slurping and splashing. Longshot felt a growing concern drift over him for the safety of the animals; they seemed...smart, more intelligent than your average ostrich horse. They'd been able to intuit the Freedom Fighters' anguish following their escape from Ba Sing Se, nuzzling them for comfort without any prompting. Granted, he would have worked to protect _any_ mount of his regardless of the fact, but...something was different with these two.

"I wish we could move a little faster," Smellerbee grumbled, her head hanging just a mite lower than usual. She'd always been good at reading people, even if unintentionally; Longshot didn't feel at all surprised that she knew what he'd been thinking about even though she hadn't turned to look at him since they'd entered the swamp some hours ago. "This is a pain in the ass. Alright, hang on...I need to check the map, see how far we've come."

Why was that?

"'Cuz...I feel like we're lost, even though we _shouldn't_ be."

Longshot paused; he hadn't even really been thinking about it, but now that Smellerbee brought it to his attention, the lurking doubt seeped into his mind - inexplicable, but there nonetheless. He'd be more surprised if it weren't the case. He nodded and gave a sharp tug on the reins of his mount, pulling it to a halt. Exhaling through his nose, the archer pushed off from the ostrich horse's saddle and sank up to his ankles in muck as he landed. (He pulled a face; this detour, already unpleasant, had just been made that much more irritating thanks to the prospect of gunk-filled boots.) Smellerbee followed, kicking up a light spray of water just slightly ahead of the archer (he saw her grimace as water and mud flooded her boots as well, and at least he wouldn't be alone in his discomfort). The swordswoman dug around in her bedroll, arm vanishing up to the elbow, before withdrawing the map; she unfurled it, pursing her lips and furrowing her brow as a finger lighted across the broccoli-shaped patch of green.

"This place...I'm startin' to understand why you didn't feel comfortable coming here."

Longshot glanced up at the swordswoman; she hadn't looked away from the map, actually looking much more intent to find out what the hell had gone wrong. Her hair had matted down to her head, a sheen of sweat glistening just beneath her headband. He didn't care for clammy atmospheres; when they had crossed the threshold of the swamp, where grass and dirt shifted to become vines, mud and murky water, he could feel the air pressing at him with heavy, moist fingers. It had been like stepping through a door into a different world; beyond the canopy of Hong Ye, the weather had been chill, lush and inviting, not unlike a typical spring morning. Here, the air itself was thick with moisture and bugs, the latter of which trying perpetually to choke the archer up and flying into his eyes.

"I feel this - I dunno - this tightness in the base of my skull." She brought one hand up and rubbed the back of her neck, grimacing again. "Like there's something alive about this place and it doesn't really want us to be here..."

The already-stifling atmosphere doubled in propensity; Smellerbee's words had given heft and weight to the sensations she'd just discovered, that Longshot had known since entering this dank hole (why the hell hadn't she listened to him before, when he brought it up _outside_ the swamp?). It brought an extra dimension to their surroundings, and Longshot felt his innards lurching in fierce protest. One thing the archer and swordswoman had become familiar with over the years, and especially recently, was that verbalizing certain things that were better left unsaid brought an unnecessary dose of reality into the equation. Then again, maybe she'd _had_ to air it out, openly admit to feeling the same fleeting sensation that had been bothering Longshot for hours now. She was too proud to turn on the beliefs she'd fostered since childhood, but maybe, just like working with Katara and Sokka in Ba Sing Se (who had every right to turn the other cheek to the Freedom Fighters and leave them to their own devices), the same niggling sensation that attacked both Freedom Fighters carried enough weight that her own opinion on the existence of Spirits had become a trivial thing. Frogs croaked and snakes hissed, birds screeched to each other through the din...and the Spirits inhabiting this place knew, they _knew_, that two outsides had trespassed on their territory. The sensation slammed into Longshot like a brick upside the head, and Smellerbee must have picked up on it as well; their eyes met, and all Longshot could do was swallow and nod in agreement to her statement.

"We...we should be careful." Smellerbee's cheeks flushed, and this time Longshot wasn't sure if it was from the humidity. "And let's trust each other to get through this together, okay?"

Well, crap. Longshot felt the old, familiar guilt pressing on him again, welling up underneath the presence of the Spirits...she had to bring _that_ up, here, now, of all places and times! His desire to commit to Smellerbee's word clashed with his self-inflicted burn, awarded to himself after she broke a similar promise in Lake Laogai. She - she couldn't understand, _wouldn't_ understand - he sure as hell didn't, and it was _his_ problem! (At the same time, her problem as well, but not - his, but hers too, but not...which is exactly _why_ she wouldn't understand to begin with.) As he erected another wall to prevent her from seeing his train of thought, he nodded to her. This wasn't the time to make waves.

In the back of his mind - because the fore was too occupied with the gnawing spider of being watched by a greater presence - he knew that his ambivalence needed to be taken care of; if he didn't come to grips with the problem, stare it in the face and take control of it, the abyss that yawned between himself and his friend would grow wider and, eventually, become irreparable.

The archer turned back to his mount, his mouth set into a thin line; an uncomfortable tingling sensation continued to wriggle through his chakras like a caterpede with one leg too many. Creatures scrambled through the underbrush, the swamp burbled - and, something, right on the fringe of his vision, blurred and dark and not entirely there - Longshot had his bow in hand with an arrow nocked in a blur, aimed up at a tree branch overhead. Yes - there! Crouched on the branch huddled a dark shadow - a person - as if waiting, ready to drop down on the Freedom Fighters, to strike. Smellerbee had drawn Jet's swords the instant she heard his bowstring draw taut, twin flashes of quicksilver cleaving the dank air in two. The form didn't move - that was okay, Longshot only needed a second, but -

- something snared his ankles, thin and stinging; he had only a second to think, _vines?_ before the world extinguished around him, yielding to, to wet cold grimy can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe, water rushing through, around his ears, vision blurred and darkened, the ground scraping his belly - bow and quiver gone, tried reaching for the surface, but his fingers combed nothing but muck, and, and -

Nothing.


	2. Book 3, Chapter 2

_**Where Words Fail**_

**Book Three: A Test of Faith**

**Chapter 2: "Who were you - a jock, or a brain?" "I was a ghost."**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This story is a fan fiction - nothing more, nothing less. It has been made purely for entertainment purposes, and is not meant for commercial gain. Avatar: The Last Airbender and all characters, places and concepts are copyright of Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. All original characters are copyright their respective owners and are used with their permission. The story has been illustrated by the talented and awesome SioUte, and this chapter's cover can be found here:

sioute(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/WWF-3-2-137207622

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_Now_

Things couldn't have been going worse, Smellerbee decided.

She'd tried - tried! So hard! - to close the gap that had formed between herself and Longshot, but no amount of space given seemed to heal his wounds, and talking to him - talking _at_ him, really - bothered the hell out of him. She _knew_ he hated being rambled at! It made him feel like people thought he was too dumb or too oblivious to answer, so why had she even _bothered_? Under different circumstances, she may have beaten her head against the nearest tree, maybe pound some sense - and the answers she sought - into her stupid, stupid skull.

Compounding the severity of the issue, a headache had been niggling at her, low and pulsating at the base of her skull, for the past several hours; she liked to think she'd hidden the scathing irritation well from Longshot. As the archer never mentioned it and actually seemed surprised when Smellerbee brought it up, it could just as easily have been him making a quick escape into aloofness again. Sighing, she watched him turn to his ostrich horse, crooking her mouth into an uneven line.

The swamp was alive, and not only in the sense that it teemed with life; something about the this place as a whole (trees and the mud and the water included) cast off an aura of secrecy, as if everything Smellerbee could perceive was just a skin. The squelching sensation of the muck sucking at her as she walked, lukewarm water trickling into her boots and getting between her toes, the oppressive, clammy air that made her clothes stick to her body, the damp, musky scent of the trees...she glanced over to the nearest one, furrowing her brow. Something went lopsided in her belly; the atmosphere painted her an unsettling, vivid canvas, as if she took the time to peel the bark away, some heart or eye or other biological ghoulishness would be writhing underneath.

Longshot had known from the start, and he'd been hesitant to come through this way because of it. It wasn't like she hadn't understood - just, they needed to make the most of their time, and...and she should have _listened_ to him.

She hadn't. The communication errors went both ways, it looked.

The archer hadn't taken her stream of thought that way, though, she could see it in the way he'd held himself the entire way into the swamp; the way he hunched over just the slightest bit, and how shadow played off his jawline, accentuating the ghost of a frown on his lips. He must have figured that she defied him out of mulishness, as if he didn't know better. It pissed her off. Smellerbee felt her mouth curling into a vicious scowl; she was tired of being angry at him for being angry at her, how he caused her emotions to sunder and hurtle in different directions. Heat not entirely related to the swamp's weather built up in her chest, welled up in her throat like bubbling lava; how _dare_ Longshot take her feelings and throw them back in her face? Things had changed with Jet's murder at Long Feng's hands, but they were still themselves! They operated great as a team and her capacity for reading him hadn't diminished between Jet's murder and their escape from Ba Sing Se. What the hell had happened to put so much distance between them?

Smellerbee sighed and faced forward, subconsciously thumbing the hilt of Jet's swords as she thought, swatting curious gnat flies away from her face with her free hand. That train of thought only yielded more frustration, and - and it was more important to get out of here, out from under the thumb of whatever oppressive spirits crushed them down. Maybe once they had, they'd be able to sort out their differences.

Through the murk of her petulant thoughts, around the swamp's natural din of bugs and birds and lizards, Smellerbee heard Longshot draw a short, sharp breath; instantly, her left hand went for the serrated dagger at the small of her back, drawing it with a silver, crescent flash. The swordswoman whirled, saw that Longshot already had an arrow nocked in his bow and aimed it upward; she followed his gaze, scrutinizing the treetops - and there, on one branch, a nebulous cloud drawing into the shape of a person -

To her right, she heard, saw Longshot fall face-down onto the ground, grunting. She whirled, eyes wide, but - nothing, he was gone, only the rippling, murky surface of the swamp water greeted her, his bow and quiver the only things that remained, clinging, graceless, to the ground. She yowled his name, lunging for where he'd been, something - some animal - must have pulled him under, and she could, she could save him, bring him back, because a life without Longshot was worse than the abyss between them. Water, freezing and alienating, no longer lukewarm, seeped through her pants legs, her boots slipping on the slick mud beneath the water's surface -

- whistling through the air, clothes ruffling, a flicker of shimmering onyx -

Smellerbee cursed and whirled again, bringing her dagger up to bear; the creature, the Murk Person, had taken a humanoid shape, holding twin swords in each hand, swinging them down at _her_ - she deflected the attack with her dagger, a spray of sparks igniting and casting the water with their orange glow. The impact drove her backwards - stumbled - threw one foot out to catch herself, the water cascading up with each step, further soaking her clothes.

Whatever this, this apparition was - something about it didn't fit right. Smellerbee could see it, hear it, and its posture suggested that it had assembled itself into a male bodytype. The little details - its clothing and face (because it _had_ a face, under the smog billowing from the core of its body) wouldn't come into focus, like the old memory of the girl in the mines, only this was now, this was fresh. It was like the Murk Person sat just to the left of all her senses, perception tangible but not exact because of how _slippery_ the damn thing was. Like grabbing an eel bare-handed and trying to hold onto it.

Her muscles already burned from the effort exerted against her adversary, arms and lungs and back screaming for respite - that wasn't natural, she shouldn't be so poor-off this early in a fight, and the swamp's suppressive, smothering humidity cast its woolen blanket over her again; the premature fatigue was another of the swamp's doings, she _knew_ it. With a grunt, she reached back with her free hand and unslung one of Jet's swords, taking a quick swipe at the cloud monster as it lunged in for another attack; it leapt away, leaving itself open, allowing Smellerbee to whip the dagger at him, a glistening missile hurled at her foe. But - the Murk Person whirled, dancing around the blade (she lost track of it after that) and closing in on the Freedom Fighter again, skimming the water's surface, kicking up a spray behind him.

Smellerbee almost lost her footing again as she swung Jet's sword in a narrow arc in a desperate bid to maneuver to solid ground. The strange not-real swordsman backed off a step before thrusting, crossing both blades together, as if to trap her wrist; she twisted away and struck low, trying to hook its ankle and break its root. It tumbled to the side, avoiding the blow, and Smellerbee backpedaled, drawing Jet's other sword and snarling.

At last - out of the water! The Murk Person shot after her, pinwheeling its swords around, tight, onyx buzzsaws; Smellerbee crouched, pressed hard into the ground, avoiding the blades and kicking out the ghoul in the back of the knee. It stumbled - should have fell! - but didn't, caught itself, whirled - Smellerbee was already up, her breath raw and hot in her throat, she leapt, flipped through the air and tried to catch her enemy by the, the - _something, anything!_ - whiffed, landed, rolled across the rugged ground. She sprang up to her feet as the ghost slashed both swords inward, then out again, trying to split her in half both ways - she felt the unholy, screaming backwind on her face, in her hair - ran for a tree, twisted her body, running _upward_ now, boots scraping against rough, mossy bark, gravity trying to lay claim to her, failing - then, the apparition below her again, swing, come on, _hit_, damn you -

- missed, landed, stumbled, fell on her butt, dull pain scraping her backside - up, planting one hand on the ground and spinning out of the way as another shower of sparks sprayed from the onyx swords, crashing against the rock she'd hit -

"What's the matter?" The not-quite swordsman taunted; the noise, familiar, but like everything else, foggy, muddled, not entirely _there_, almost made her flub up her recovery as she sprang back to her feet. A ghost's voice. How the hell could it talk? It whirled one sword around and thrust the pommel at her. Smellerbee leaned backwards, and - the pommel of its sword glistened, razor-sharp, a diamond - like - like Jet's swords. "Not used to using those things?" It took another swing at her, this time both blades coming from one side; the swordswoman danced around it, its back exposed, vulnerable -

"Nff - I know 'em enough - that I can use 'em against - you." Smellerbee grunted as she swung the swords - and, and it _blocked_, locking both of its swords behind its back, one over the shoulder and one around the side. He whirled, parrying the Freedom Fighter, almost made her lose her balance.

"That's a very bold lie to tell," it snorted, spinning around and bringing one sword up, forcing Smellerbee to side-step; it followed up with a quick horizontal slash from the other blade, and this time she _did_ lose her footing, tumbling down into the water again, and, and, cold all over, no sight, no sound, can't _breathe_, vulnerable - no, no, no! She shoved at the ground, hurled herself backwards just as the Murk Person's onyx swords slashed through the bog's surface, where she'd been prone not even a second before. Gulping bitter, suffocating air, Smellerbee scrambled backwards (still clutching Jet's swords, each movement hindered), hoisting herself onto dry land. The Murk Person cleaved the air again, and Smellerbee rolled backwards, back onto her feet, panting, her hair clinging to the sides of her face. "You never were much of a smooth talker, Smellerbee."

At the mention of her name, the swordswoman paused; her nameless, not-quite-there assailant leapt in her hesitation and pressed forward with a flurried windmill of attacks, forcing Smellerbee back - coming to a sudden stop as she felt her back press into the rough bark of a tree. Breath tight, hot, searing, she saw the swordsman lean to the left - it swung one of its blades hard, and, and, and - vision, pulse hammering, couldn't, just _move_! She rolled away, and its sword bit into the bark with a wet, metallic scrape, and - the blade had gotten stuck! Smellerbee leapt backwards as the phantasm struggled with its weapon, trying to dislodge it (_"nothing a little finesse won't fix"_); she surged towards it, dropping down to the ground and sliding across the rugged swamp floor, her shoulder whacking a gnarled tree root. Hissing, she swung Jet's swords out, tried to grab the ghoul by the ankles - missed, inexperience showing - managed to grab one of its pants legs, momentum tearing it open - and - and, back up to her feet , swinging in a narrow arc -

Off-balance (_had hurt something in the shoulder_), the hook of Jet's swords cleaved through the Murk Person's arm, the severed limb fizzling out of existence in a shower of shadowy particles, like black dust. The phantom yowled, stumbling away, clutching its sword in its remaining hand, and the wound must have - wounding it - it brought the ghost into focus, no longer slipping through her senses, no longer anonymous, all the little details becoming sharp, acute. It whirled around, and Smellerbee saw its - _his_ face -

"No," Smellerbee whispered, feeling her eyebrows arch high underneath her headband. She swallowed and began backing away, shaking her head. "No, no, no."

"You worthless brat," Jet snarled, his face contorting - his eyes growing sharp, distant, a deep scowl twisting on his lips. Smellerbee had seen that look on him before, on the rare occasion where rage overcame his common sense; when Jet, calculating and shrewd, lost his capacity for finesse and gave way to the screaming eight-year-old, the wound from losing his family still seeping and razor-sharp.

He'd worn that look when he thought he'd discovered that Li and Mushi were Firebenders. It - he shouldn't be looking at _her_ like that, and - it spurned a strange cascade of ice and lava inside Smellerbee's gut, causing her to grit her teeth and clench the swords - Jet's swords - even tighter. How could he - how was he _here_?

"You - you - " Smellerbee sputtered, drawing one of Jet's swords up to her chest, defensively. "You're - you're dead! You aren't real!"

"I raised you for the past six years," Jet continued, his voice low and accusatory. "I trained you to use swords and to fight the Fire Nation! I was the older brother that you never had, I was the father they took from you, and here you are - holding _my_ weapons, using _my_ techniques, hiding instead of taking the fight to them!"

"Jet, I can't!" Smellerbee drew a deep, sharp breath, cold as ice in her throat. Her eyes stung, vision blurred (_sweat, or tears?_), and, and, her chest became tight, _so_ tight. "It's just me and Longshot - we'd get killed or captured, and I plan to survive long enough to - "

"Shut up!" He snarled, throwing his remaining hand out, his hair flopping around his face. "You're weak! Pathetic! You don't know how to fight, you don't know how to use my swords, and you don't know how to lead. You're just some gender-confused little girl playing soldier!"

"_That's not true!_" Smellerbee howled, lashing out with Jet's swords; they sliced through his torso, and the ghost of her leader flickered out of existence - as if he'd never been there in the first place. Even weirder - the sword he'd left stuck in the tree had vanished as well, the bark unscarred. Still, his laughter resounded in the pits of her ears; breath heavy and hot, chest heaving, Smellerbee hunkered down lower, scowling, waiting for Jet to attack her again.

Nothing; the laughter faded, leaving her in the natural song of the swamp's wildlife. A toad croaked nearby, and when it was clear the, the - what, the _illusion?_ There was no other explanation for it. Either way, it wouldn't come back, and Smellerbee sheathed Jet's swords.

What the hell had been up with that...? Why had Jet...no, that _wasn't_ Jet, Jet would _never_ have said such, such cruel, heartless things to her. Her leader had taken pride in his Freedom Fighters, they were his children and siblings (the hellish reimagining of him had been right about _that_ much). Sure, he had to - to _be_ that parent sometimes, had to discipline them, but nothing so, so demeaning as calling her - telling her - his words, still throbbing in her ears...just, just put it out of your mind, Smellerbee. The ostrich horses had taken off, too - abandoned the swordswoman as soon as the fight (if it had even really happened) had broken out. Just freaking great. The knot in the base of her skull throbbed even harder now, and she brought a hand up to massage it, her hair still damp from when she fell into the bog -

Her eyes went wide, and her breath froze solid in her throat.

"Longshot!" She cried, panic rising up and claiming her, a clamoring hogmonkey clinging to her back; she tried to, to remember where he'd vanished, and the water here was shallow, but it was more than enough to drown in. She cursed, a virulent, disgusting word that Skillet had taught her; how could she have spent so many precious minutes fighting a hallucination when Longshot's life was in danger? Another, more acidic curse fell as she slogged into the murky waters, scooping up his bow and quiver as she moved, water, _more damned water_ sloshing up, splashing her clothes, soaking her skin.

"Longshot, please! Answer me!"

_"Failure,"_ Jet's voice whispered in her ear; she tried brushing it away like an irritable gnat, but it persisted after her, low and venomous and silky. _"You've let him down just like you did me."_

"Shut _UP_!" Smellerbee bellowed. She'd never be able to find Longshot! The water in this pond was too murky to see through, too broad for her to sweep, and Spirits _knew_ how deep it got! Jet was right, she _was_ a failure, a terrible person, her poor leadership is what landed them in this position, they should have chanced going by the Fire Nation troops, she should have listened to Longshot when she had the opportunity -

Something caught her attention from her peripheral vision; whipping her head around, rat-tails of hair slapping her cheeks, she spotted a great, yawning chasm inset into a sloped hill off to the right. Water drained from the bog, swallowed up by the pitch beyond the cave's mouth, and - and it was better than _nothing_, because if she stayed here, she wouldn't ever find him...but what if something had made its home there, she'd need time to scout it out -

- but that was time she didn't have. She knew - _somehow_ - that Longshot would lie beyond the mouth of that cave. It didn't matter what the hell else was inside. She'd wrestle a platypus bear if it came down to it.

Setting her mouth in a straight line, she slung Longshot's quiver across her back, the weight of carrying two of her friends' weapons slowing her, as if she had their - their bodies (don't even _think_ about that) as well. With a snort, she headed towards the arch of black, Jet's voice hissing venomous words at her earlobe, words that held no power, not in the face of what was at stake. Still, as she crossed the threshold, sloshing beyond the mouth of the cave and into the darkness, the voice became permeable - less phantomlike.

"Great," Smellerbee whispered, her voice echoing off the narrow walls of the cave. Her headache spiked noticeably, making her wince. "If the swamp really does have a lot of Spiritual power, I'm going right up its nose and into its brain, aren't I...?"

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_Then_

Longshot watched from his perch atop a fallen tree as Smellerbee reached back over her head for the quiver slung onto her back; she fumbled, dull from lack of experience or instinct, but he didn't harangue her. It was just practice, and being hard on her would only make her frustrated, and Longshot needed her to remain as calm as possible. Keeping a clear head was a key factor in archery; Smellerbee was capable of achieving that in the middle of combat, but because of the lack of life-threatening danger, she struggled to maintain that clarity.

Grunting a low curse, Bee finally managed to snag an arrow between her fore and middle fingers, as he'd shown her to do, and held the bow out in her other hand. The white gloves she wore had been temporarily done away with, tape wrapped around the fingers of her left hand for steadier, injury-free grabbing and aiming of her limited ammunition. She nocked the arrow, and it wavered a bit in her grasp before resting against the wood of the bow itself, and pulled back on the string until it had gone taut in her grasp, the sinew creaking and stretching. Bee had enough muscle from her own melee-centric style of combat to keep the bow steady, but Longshot knew too well the burning sensation running through her arms, her back, her legs regardless.

All around, birds sang a raucous, slipshod chorus that would been perfect for music night, and the scent of syrup drifted upwards, dancing to the natural song of the forest. Bee narrowed her eyes, and Longshot could see them focusing on the target - a bullseye painted roughshod onto a tree a few yards away. To Longshot, it was claustrophobically close by; at that range, the enemy would have to be pants-on-head retarded to miss you in the middle of a battle. Even then, Jet planned out most of their battle strategies, occasionally letting Smellerbee or Sneers try their hand at it, weaning them into the leadership position, so once in a while - and far more frequently with Sneers - he'd find his proximity to their opponents alarmingly dangerous. Still, the distance was more than adequate for Smellerbee's needs; after all, the not everyone could peg a screech pigeon from two hundred yards away (and that was a perfectly modest gauge of his skill with the bow and arrow, if he dared think so himself).

Her breathing wasn't quite right, Longshot realized; she had her teeth clenched and bared, just barely, and he could tell - by the way her nostrils didn't flare, by the more exaggerated rising and falling of her chest - that she was inhaling through her mouth. Her posture - while mostly correct, with the back straight and legs planted firmly apart - degenerated the longer she hesitated, melting away with the strain on her muscles and the test on her patience.

Longshot blinked and leaned backwards slightly, as suddenly the tension in the air became permeable and suffocating; she was focusing on making the shot more than her surroundings and any elements that could affect it. Narrowing his eyes, the archer watched as Smellerbee's fingers relaxed the slightest bit - hesitated - before finally releasing the arrow. It whistled through the air - missed the target tree, piercing the bark of another a few yards away, stuck out at an odd angle.

"Gah!" She threw her arms up and cursed. "This is dumb, Longshot - I couldn't hit an elephant turtle!"

The archer pushed away from his perch and walked over to her, fixing her with an expectant gaze. Come on, she knew better than that.

"Yeah - like Jet said, it's a good idea to try and expand our combat expertise." She lowered the bow to her side and cast a burning glare to the grass at her feet. "You suck at hand-to-hand, I suck at range; this is the best solution to a mutual problem. But - I mean - don't you think it's kinda pointless?"

Longshot hiked an eyebrow. Why'd she think that?

Smellerbee bowed her head just a tad more, almost-but-not-quite obscuring the pink flush scrawled across her cheeks. She placed one hand behind her head, her fingers grabbing at the tangled mop of hair. "I - I dunno. It just seems like...you know...like we'll always be there for each other, I guess. It's kinda stupid."

This time, Longshot felt himself blushing, heat rising up into his ears; he tilted his hat down, trying to hide it, and rested a hand on Smellerbee's shoulder. When she glanced up to meet his gaze, he gave her a ghost of a smile, and she beamed back in return. It would be okay...he felt the same way, and he knew they wouldn't abandon each other. Now, she had to work on her stance and breathing...once she got that under control, _then_ she could worry about her aim.

"Okay then, tough guy. Go a head and help me improve my stance."

Longshot grinned, nodded and walked around behind Smellerbee, positioning himself to help her hold the bow correctly while maintaining the right footing. He tried his hardest to ignore her warmth pressed against his stomach, and the jittering, fluttering sensation in his chest as the pair continued their archery lesson.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

_Now_

"Longshot..."

The archer groaned at the sound of his name and rolled over, squinching his eyes shut. Crooking one arm underneath his head as a pillow, the cool floorboards stiff and unyielding against his side (how could he sleep here without his mat?), the pungent tang of delicious, succulent meat in the air. Not something that would be gamy, tough to chew on, like deerhare; no, this had to have been Skillet's spicy chicken tangoing in the air, dancing with...what season was it? Honey, cinnamon, syrup and hickory all congealed into one amalgamation of sweetness, which wasn't right...ugh, maybe if he woke up a little bit more. His lungs ached and his throat burned, for reasons he couldn't quite place; maybe something he'd eaten last night had disagreed with him, or maybe Spatula had put too much spice in his kabal skewers again...

"Come on, lazybones. You've been asleep for fourteen hours."

That voice - so familiar, but he couldn't really place it. Light, hoarse, a little bit nasal. Over the whispering of the tree's branches, he could hear a fire crackling, its warmth refreshing on his body, like a blanket laid over him - a _real_ blanket, not the threadbare, glorified pieces of paper they used. He picked up the smell of burning leaves - rich, poignant, a slice of home. Occasionally, they'd collect fallen leaves and use them to fuel the fires because it just smelled soooo good.

The mouth-watering aroma of food tempted him enough to get Longshot to crack his eyes open; vision blurred, colors swirled together overhead as cool blue and slick gray melted away into gold and crimson. A gentle breeze - cool, but not unpleasant - whispered by, and a few loose strands of black hair flickered in his gaze, pulled out of the ponytail he kept hidden under his hat.

Wincing at a dull razor of pain scraping his chest, Longshot propped himself up on one elbow and tried to blink the sleep out of his eyes; his gaze brushed over the familiar boughs of the Hong Ye's trees, catching small glances of the multitude of platforms and tents spanning out in the distance, as well as the ziplines and bridges weaving through the trees to connect one area to another. For a second, he swore - he couldn't hear anything, an alien silence amidst the savory aromas and vivid colors. No children laughing as they played their games, no birds or bugs singing at each other, no chatter...just the crackling fire, and the voice that had spoken to him. But - the instant he acknowledged it, the silence dissipated, swallowed up by those sounds that defined their home just as the colors of the leaves did.

Something wasn't right about this.

Longshot reached up to adjust the brim of his hat, but his fingers brushed air - where'd it go? He craned his eyes up, the curved straw gone missing, blank, and it'd _suck_ losing the thing - it was ripe with old memories, dusty and faded, but still stuff he was fond of - Jet had found it, had given it to him, said it looked good on him. He didn't think he could handle losing it again.

Wait. Again...? He'd lost it before? Well, sure, he had - back when The Duke kickstarted his prank war a couple seasons ago, Smellerbee had very sneakily done away with the tattered, much-loved object, secreting it in some vortex of anonymity. Only when Jet declared a winner - Pipsqueak, the sly bastard, for his ingenious chain reaction of pranks on _everyone_, all eighteen other Freedom Fighters (an epic story for another time), did the swordswoman yield his precious hat to him. It had been annoying at the time - he didn't show it, but Smellerbee saw through him anyway, because she was always so good at reading people. (She also saw deeper than that, saw the masochistic delight Longshot experienced at her hands...but he didn't really mind it, because he knew it made her smile.)

Still...he'd lost it again, and he couldn't quite place where, or when, and he didn't really count Bee's temporary theft as "losing" the hat in the first place. Frowning, Longshot eased himself to his feet; the dull pain flared up, the raw burn spiking, red-hot. He winced, hissed - it felt like being lanced through his chest, run through with a polearm wielded by a clumsy Fire Nation soldier.

"Hey! Good to see you're finally with us. We were worried."

The flickering glow of the campfire caught his attention; it had been stoked in a round pit framed by a nigh-perfect ring of stone, something Mortar and Pestle had Bent into existence. Around them, bathed in an orange glow, sat the core Freedom Fighters, plus a few: Jet, with his head crooked, a smirk on his face that made the twig in his mouth bob, one knee drawn up with an arm draped over it; Pipsqueak, with a platter in one hand and a pair of chopsticks in the other; The Duke, perched on the giant's shoulders with his face obscured by his own plate, his helmet set aside; Sneers, his back to the fire and a scowl on his face (another lost debate to Skillet?); Skillet, standing between Sneers and Pipsqueak, a triumphant smirk on her face (okay, yeah, definitely an argument where the cook had come out on top); Mortar and Pestle, hunched over a sheaf of paper and murmuring to each other; Spatula, his legs crossed and a grin flitting across his chubby face, the fire sparkling in his rounded eyes; and Smellerbee, last of all, facing away from the archer, stooped over and motionless.

Okay, something _really_ wasn't right about this, but Longshot would be damned if he could figure out what. Something about - Spatula? Skillet, too - almost as if neither one belonged here.

"It's been one heck of a party," Pipsqueak offered, holding up his plate as if in salute to the rising archer, slices of chicken glistening on top. "Kinda disappointing that you missed most of it."

"Yeah! We really kicked some Fire Nation butt yesterday!" The Duke chirped.

Longshot nodded slowly; yeah, of course, another successful raid against their enemies. The Fire Nation. Why else would they be celebrating...? Because this _was_ a celebration - a feast. The laughter of the younger Freedom Fighters drew nearer - so close, so suddenly (how had _that_ happened?), and then - there, flickering into being in the fire's light. They gathered nearby as if waiting for Jet to deliver one of his legendary speeches, to sweep the entire group off its feet; and, it must have been speech time, the chow had been served and the others had gathered. However...Jet's charisma, the pending, pulse-hammering electricity that always preceded his showboating didn't ignite the air. What was going on? Longshot turned to his leader, arching his eyebrows, expecting the show to start. Maybe it was the grogginess...maybe, once Jet started...

The leader of the Freedom Fighters caught Longshot's expression from the corner of his gaze and pushed upward into a standing position, his smirk growing cockier; he drew a deep breath, spread his arms wide, and opened his mouth -

Nothing. That same alien muteness, striking so fast as to be like a mongoose viper. Shock flitted across Jet's face, akin to a wayward firefly, panic quickly overtaking him; he turned his attention to Longshot, eyes wide, pupils small, as if to ask, _'How do you do it?'_

Longshot felt a similar panic burbling up into his throat. How _did_ he do it? How did he communicate without verbalizing himself - how did the world notice him when he kept his mouth pressed firmly shut? The others were able to read him - he had no idea _how_, it just happened that way! Jet should understand - he'd spent enough time around the archer to be able to interpret him well enough, even though it took a subconscious effort on his part. He shook his head; how the hell was he supposed to answer...?

Smellerbee - _she_ would know, she always did. Somehow, the tomboy had been gifted with the ability to read him without having to look his way, to puzzle out his minute expressions. Longshot pointed at her, arching his eyebrows high; this elicited a frustrated sigh from the swordswoman, and she hung her head, her silhouette a dark blot against the glow of the flame. "Fine. Dump it all on me, like always."

Longshot felt his lips pulling into a small frown, and he shook his head; he wasn't shirking responsibility, it's just - he needed her help, something only she could tell...

"Hey, if telling yourself that is what helps you sleep at night, I won't say otherwise." She shrugged, a motion that usually made her shaggy hair bob...but it didn't, it clung to the sides of her head, didn't have any spring to it. "You're certainly not the same Longshot that ditches his friends as soon as they show signs of walking away from you, nope."

Ice ran down his arms, numbing his fingers. He clenched his fists at his sides, gritting his teeth; how dare she accuse him of running away, when she'd been the one to die on him? He approached the tomboy, each step as hushed as his voice; his fingers clamped down on Smellerbee's shoulder and he forced her up to her feet, whirling her about. Alright, enough was enough - he was tired of being so confused, so mad at her, mad at himself, because he didn't know what to _think_ anymore! Time to solve the issue - time to confront her about what had happened at Lake Laogai (Lake what?) -

Her face - when he saw it, memory came flooding back to him, waves crashing down upon him, the ocean in a typhoon - visions, fleeting and rapid and vivid, of the trip to Ba Sing Se, the ferry ride, the city, Jet fighting the tea shop boy, Lake Laogai, and, and Jet, lying there cold and still and bloodied and not really his friend at all, the prison cell trapped under the water's surface. So many memories, pounding him from every angle, telling him that this happy scenario - being back at the Hong Ye forest with everyone, _everyone_ - Dead Spatula the Fire Nation Infiltrator and Acrophobic Skillet Who Hadn't Set Foot in the Trees Since Joining the Freedom Fighters - was nothing more than a sick illusion. Upon this realization, the false reality, so sharp and lucid, sounds smells sights, shattered as if made of glass, thousands of millions of colored shards fluttering away into an inky void.

The cloth of Bee's tunic was damp; not soaked, but more like it had rained recently. Beneath the rough fabric, her skin - her _flesh_ - shifted, bloated, soft, unnatural.

But her _face_! Her cheeks had gone pale, paste-white interlaced by sickly purple bruises, her lips frosty blue. The war paint on her right cheek had been smudged, just as it had on that rainy day when he brushed against her by accident; the crimson bled out across that cheek, choked and swollen, mottled with patches of rot. The other cheek - there _was_ no other cheek, the flesh had been stripped, torn away, only one strand of skin left in the middle of the hole - gums and teeth, much more than should have really been showing even, so, _too_ visible. Her hair laid flat against her head, matted with water and sand, patches of the stuff, and skin, and bone, just _gone_, and, he could see her _brain_. Perhaps the most revolting, though, were her empty eye sockets: nothing but pits of inky black that pierced Longshot's gaze, freezing his blood in place. Even though she had no pupils, Longshot could feel her - it - looking at him, looking _through_ him, a twisted grin curling up on its decaying face.

"**Oh, sorry I startled you,**" it said, its voice burbling and haggard - lungs filled with water, throat choked with grit. Longshot backpedaled, his gaze trailing downward; beyond its jaw, he could see the pale streak of its neck vanishing into its high collar, and he realized that part of its throat had gone missing - torn out by a beast, somehow, or just lost to the natural cycle of decomposition (_what did it __matter__?_). "**My bad. Looks like on top of that irresponsible streak you've been lugging around, you're a bit squeamish, too.**"

He scowled and backstepped again, but his shoulders bumped into something rough, rugged - a single tree, the remains of his hallucination of the forest, except withered and leafless, its bark turned bone-gray. The abomination of his friend, this mockery, this shameful proxy - advanced on him with one great step, jabbing him in the chest with a rotted finger, the fabric from her gloves tattered and peeling to expose more pustulent flesh. "**Keep walking away, Longshot. Keep running; that's all you're good for. When guilt comes down on you like a hammer, you try bearing the burden alone, but you always knuckle under in the end. It happened when you realized you and you **_**alone**_** were responsible for nearly killing dozens of innocent people by blowing up that dam; it's happening now, with me, because you nearly lost me and at the last minute you gave up. Pathetic. **_**Feeble**_**.**"

In a perverted parody of Smellerbee, this zombie - the ZomBee - crossed its arms over its chest and glanced downward, pouting, brow furrowed enough to appear from beneath its filthy headband. "**I mean...you're supposed to be the Freedom Fighters' backbone, aren't you? They can always rely on Longshot's stoicism to strengthen 'em, give 'em some resolve. What an incredible lie you live, barely standing upright under your own burdens, let alone those of others.**"

It snorted and reached up to its scalp, hand disappearing around the side of its head; for a moment, Longshot thought the ZomBee was scratching an itch, but it jerked its head to the side and scowled, a second later drawing a strand of pink-gray brain matter that jiggled and danced in the air like a worm on a fishing hook. The corpse sniffed at the strand experimentally, wrinkling the remains of its nub-shaped nose in distaste (another accurate parody, something Longshot had seen Smellerbee do towards strange, exotic foods she'd never yet eaten) before slurping it into its mouth and swallowing.

Finally, the archer felt his resolve give way to nausea; he stumbled down onto one hand and knee and threw up, this morning's breakfast vanishing into the inky abyss surrounding them both. The ZomBee laughed, a cruel, gritty sound that tore at his ears. "**Weak, feeble, terrible, the boy who thinks himself a man simply because he wears the albatross of guilt alone and in silence.**"

The ZomBee shuffled backwards (for that's what it was, shuffling; not the lanky, wide steps Smellerbee took when walking, nor the graceful, fevered way she moved in combat) and, through the pitch, the crackling orange glow of the fire reappeared; Longshot, still queasy, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and glanced up to see Mortar and Pestle's ring-shaped pit had emerged with it, cradling the flames like a mother to a newborn baby. The fire still licked at the alluring meat impaled on the spit, but the aroma of Skillet's turkey chicken had turned acrid, foul.

"**Maybe something a little more palatable is in order,**" the ZomBee said, a smirk crawling across its face, a hand thrown out in a sweeping gesture at the spit. The glowing firelight cast shadows against the decay; it accentuated gaps, holes in her clothing and armor, revealing more bloated, chalk-white skin, glistening and wet and festered. It reached into the fire and tore the meat from the spit, examining it with a crooked head. "**Here; the others were eating this before, and I don't think it's too bad. I made it myself.**"

Longshot stumbled to his feet and tried to back away again, but his shoulders bumped into the tree again - only it _wasn't_ the tree, this new surface was still ragged, but cool and wet; he reached backwards and felt his fingertips brush stone and moss. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed only more pitch; another illusion, as the forest had been, as well as the shambling, abominate corpse of a person he knew still lived.

He looked at the ZomBee again - and felt his chest tighten, the beast having covered the ground between them, too quickly (he wanted to, to call zombie bullshit, they weren't _supposed_ to be that fast!); it stooped over, clutching the meat to its chest, its left ankle dragging slightly behind as if the rigor hadn't yet eased in it. The scent of decay flooded his nostrils, and Longshot felt his lips curl down into a scowl; he tried to move away from this abomination, this animated deception, but the stone had closed in on him, left and right and back, trapping him in every direction but forward. The ZomBee stood rooted between the archer and escape, and its stench - foul, noisome - caused the world around Longshot to lurch, and its hollow-eyed gaze sharpened with a quirk of the mouth.

"**A little woozy, I guess. The meat will help you recover. Here; it's especially for you.**" The ZomBee withdrew the chunk of meat from her body: festering, with maggots squirming on the surface, Longshot knew well enough to know that it was not muscle from an animal, but a heart - a very human, very _undead_ heart. Pale, purple, with black, cancerous splatters covering its surface, the bell-shaped organ pulsed in the ZomBee's palms, and Longshot felt reviled at the sight. He fell back against the cool stone behind him, sliding down until crouching, revolted, his stomach churning and flopping and threatening to void its contents again.

"_**Especially**_** for you,**" the abomination repeated, bringing its face - a blasphemy, a mar to the person who it really belonged to - in close to Longshot's, its stench overpowering. It jabbed him in the chest again. "**I took my heart out and I'm giving it to you, boy who bears the weight of responsibility in silence - a laughable dichotomy. You know it, and you still try to put distance between you and me because you let me die. The comedy gold with that? As much as you think I abandoned you, **_**you**_** abandoned me in return! Well, now's your chance to make it up to me, Longshot; I've died and taken my heart out for you! Let your failures pierce you like arrows riddling a tree; know that, as hard as you try, you can never do the right thing when it counts!**"

"Oh, put a sock in it, lady!"

Longshot blinked; the familiar twang of a bow's string losing its tension flicked in his right ear, followed by the sound of a low, wet impact; the ZomBee howled, a bestial roar like a lion hawk, stumbling, falling backwards - swallowed up by the abyss. The pitch receded, giving way to a cave dimly illuminated by glowing, blue crystals embedded in the walls. Standing at the mouth of the cave, holding his bow in one hand, stood Smellerbee - the real one? - with her mouth quirked into a victorious, relieved grin.

"Well, it's about time I hit something with this damn thing," she said, a nervous laugh lighting on her lips. "Good to see that the archery practice paid off, huh?"

Longshot stumbled up to his feet again, balancing himself against the cave wall behind him, his legs threatening to give out. His eyes wide, his chest tightening all over again, his breath coming out fast and narrow, he shot her a panicked glance. Was she just another illusion? His hands quaked, and he took a few steps forward, being careful of his footing, avoiding the pile of sick near the room's center. He looked Smellerbee over to make sure: Jet's swords on her back, certainly much more alive, didn't have the fermentation of a rotting corpse...

"Yes, I'm really me," Smellerbee said, unslinging Longshot's quiver from her back and casting a worried glance over to the place where the fraudulent doppelganger had vanished. "I think I understand now - what you weren't telling me before. That was me if I'd drowned, and the only time I've ever come close to that was at Lake Laogai." Smellerbee bowed her head for a moment and frowned, her eyes squinched shut. "When I almost died...it was like I'd abandoned you. Like I broke my word to stick by you, no matter what. You felt that way, but you also felt like it wasn't my fault, and that indecision's what's been tearing you apart the past few days...isn't it?"

She turned her gaze up to him again, and by this point he had crossed the remaining distance between them, and Longshot could see, hear, smell her properly; her war stripes, perfectly intact, her cheeks flushed crimson, her voice hushed and raspy, choked not with sand but with the destruction of her home, the scent of - honey, cinnamon, hickory, syrup, of burning leaves - all those wonderful smells, _not_ congealed. Of sweat and blood and oiled metal and (faintly) lilacs. She was alive, she was the real thing, and something inside Longshot began to crumble; the invisible walls he had built up to protect himself, losing their support. He nodded, bit his lower lip, eyes drifting away from her. Yeah. That was it...and he was ashamed of that, and...and...

The walls fell. He drew her into a tight, powerful hug, her body warm and alive and scrawny and _Smellerbee_, and she wrapped her arms around him in return; burying his face into her neck, Longshot felt the hot rivulets running down his face before he could stop them from coming, his body quaking. His breath caught in his throat, and he choked out a small, barely audible sob; Smellerbee clutched him even tighter, and finally, the abyss that had yawned out between them mended itself, bridging one side to the other.

"It's okay. It's okay, Longshot, I'm here," she whispered. "I'll never leave you, Longshot, I swear to the Spirits. I swear it on Jet's grave. I'll stay by your side. You don't have to worry about what happened at Lake Laogai anymore, okay...? I forgive you. I'll help you bear your burdens from now on...I promise."

Longshot nodded into the crook of her neck, and Smellerbee rested her head against his; and, for the briefest of moments, the archer felt the ghost of a kiss on his cheek, fleeting, featherlight, like a flutterfly caressing his skin. His eyes widened, and he pulled far enough away from Smellerbee to examine her; she blushed, frowned, and turned her head away, punching him in the shoulder in response. Longshot grinned.

"Now, follow me, okay?" Smellerbee turned and waited for Longshot to equip his gear again. "I got washed down here by an underground river. I saw a way back up while searchin' for you, but you'll need to watch your footing, cause the rocks are slick and...and we dunno if the Spirits are still feeling playful."

Longshot paused, glanced up at her - the way she said that...did she believe in Spirits now?

Smellerbee smirked and raised a helpless eyebrow. "I can't believe I'm saying this...but yeah. You were right. For Jet, it took meeting Aang...for me, it took a Hell Jet and a zombie me."

The archer's cheeks tingled, a warm smile flitting across his face.


	3. Book 3, Chapter 3

_**Where Words Fail**_

**Book Three: A Test of Faith**

**Chapter 3: So much is said in this perfect silence**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This story is a fan fiction - nothing more, nothing less. It has been made purely for entertainment purposes, and is not meant for commercial gain. Avatar: The Last Airbender and all characters, places and concepts are copyright of Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. All original characters are copyright their respective owners and are used with their permission. The story has been illustrated by the talented and awesome SioUte, and this chapter's cover can be found here:

sioute(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/WWF-3-3-138010675

**SCENE DIVIDE**

"Come on - okay - yeah." Smellerbee grunted and hauled herself out of the sinkhole leading from the underground caverns to the swamp's surface, muscles straining and breath hot and raw in her throat. She grimaced, her clothes still damp and clinging to her body, accentuating the muggy atmosphere and making it that much more vexatious. Sweat percolated beneath her headband, and she reached up to tug it free before it gave her a rash, tucking it down the front of her tunic before reaching back into the sinkhole. Longshot clasped his hand around her wrist, and she did to his in return; heaving, growling, Smellerbee hoisted Longshot up, out, and at last they were free from the murky, clammy catacombs. They stumbled - lost their balance, the ground uneven beneath their feet - and fell, Smellerbee landing ass-first on the rugged, lumpy ground, Longshot collapsing beside her. She hissed, dropped a venomous curse, and rubbed her backside, gritting her teeth. "Ow. Ow ow ow."

Longshot nodded in agreement, shoving himself up to his hands and knees, grimacing. Yeah. Not exactly pleasant.

"It's your fault...you need to lose some weight." Smellerbee punched Longshot in the arm and grinned, poking her tongue out between her teeth.

What - was she blind? This was all muscle. Longshot clambered up to his feet and flexed, a smarmy smirk pulling up on one side of his mouth; he hiked an eyebrow, and she lost herself to a gale of laughter at the faux machismo grandstanding.

"Sure - muscle. You keep tellin' yourself that, fatty." Through the small, almost flirtatious teasing, Smellerbee felt a wholeness overcome her; warmth, like a wool blanket in the middle of winter, overcame her soul, a comforting kind superseding that of the swamp's, cast over her entire body, and looking at Longshot, she knew he felt the same thing. They were complete again, even though Jet was gone, even though they still had a long way to go on their journey, even though they still had to find their ostrich horses and all their supplies, even though they were lost in a swamp that delighted in playing mind games with them.

She shoved up to her feet, popping her neck and rotating her shoulderblades, working out the cramps and kinks. Sighing through her nose, she glanced up to the canopy of the swamp - muddy green, long, gnarled vines entwined in the branches, dangling down between trees. A bug chirped at her ear, and she brushed it off with a dismissive wave; all around, the swamp's natural chorus of wildlife croaked, hummed, screeched - it grated the swordswoman's ears, sandpapery and intolerable. What she wouldn't give for Hong Ye's blanket of birdsong...and the scents, too! She had to work to clench her nostrils, to breath through her mouth, because the foul stench in the air had only become more pungent - mildew, mold, swamp gas...and Pipsqueak farts, of course, that hadn't changed. At last, she crossed her arms over her chest and murmured, "My vision was of Jet."

What? Longshot perked at the news, a curious frown lighting across his face.

"He wasn't like normal," Smellerbee admitted, reaching into her tunic and withdrawing her headband, wringing the moisture out before tucking it into her waistband. She started walking - where, she wasn't entirely sure, but Longshot followed in step. "Like your zombie-me."

ZomBee, yeah.

"Right. He was all - dark, evil-looking. He kept demeaning me, telling me how I wasn't - wasn't worthy to lead, to use his swords. How we weren't taking the fight to the Fire Nation. We got into a big swordfight, and he kept telling me how I wasn't using his blades correctly. I mean, you know I practice with them whenever I get the chance...I'm learning, just like using any other sword, but these are kinda weird, so it's hard to get used to 'em. Like they weren't meant for me. I guess he was right about that much."

Out of the corner of her eye, the swordswoman saw the taller Freedom Fighter give an earnest nod. He knew how that went - just like swords, no two bows were the same.

"Snowflakes are like that too, supposedly. According to The Duke, anyway."

Swords, bows and snowflakes - now there was a helluva metaphor right there. Longshot smirked; she couldn't see it, but she didn't have to know he was. So...where were the ostrich horses?

Smellerbee sighed and shook her head. "I don't know. When Hell Jet got the jump on me - I guess they sensed _something_, because they spooked and ran off. We're going to have to find them before we can leave because we won't last long without our supplies. And, I..." She took a deep breath - ugh, she hated having to break this to him, but... "I lost the knife you bought me. I threw it in the fight against Hell Jet - if I knew he was an illusion, I wouldn't have, and I didn't have time to go find it...I'm sorry, Longshot. I knew you bought it just for me, and - "

She felt his hand squeeze her shoulder; she glanced back to him and he smiled, shrugging. That was alright; if it was the dagger versus his life - versus their friendship-and-more - then it didn't _matter_ if it got lost. Though, he did miss his new hat...his eyes rolled upwards, and he pinched the air where the brim should have been, sighing. It had been just the right condition, too. How something that tattered managed to make its way to the Upper Ring of Ba Sing Se...

"Whoa, you went to the Upper Ring for that?" She smirked and slugged him in the arm again. "You got eclectic tastes. The Duke taught me that word."

Longshot harrumphed and turned his head up, away - and she laughed again, because even through he hated pantomiming to get his point across, he was great at impersonating attitudes.

It was something he only ever shared with her, really - and she loved it that way.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

"Well, at least we know what direction they went in." Smellerbee brought a thumb up to her mouth - almost gnawed on it out of habit - before realizing that the glove was still tainted with the muck and grody swamp water. Grimacing, she pulled her hand away and said, "That's weird...they weren't running. They couldn't have just _walked_ away..."

She pressed two fingers against the ground - damp, squishy enough to yield to the clawed talons of an ostrich horse and leave a clear footprint. "I can't tell how long ago this was made - the hallucinations screwed with my frame of mind, I don't know how much time passed between Hell Jet and now. But..." She cast a glance to the small deposit of dung smoldering only a few feet away, flies buzzing and flicking and shuffling across its surface, loud, foul and greedy. Another grimace pulled on her lips, and this time she poked her tongue out between her teeth. "That's always been my least favorite part of the job."

Longshot nodded a silent agreement; as Smellerbee unfurled herself to stand upright, she let her eyes sweep the path left by their mounts. Where the ground became too solid for footprints, other tells remained in their wake; the Freedom Fighters followed the path highlighted by pressed grass, dirt patches with unusual scuff marks, and brush that had been broken or trampled. They had a trail, but no way of knowing how old the marks were, and the dung could give them at least _some_ concept of how much time had elapsed...

Smellerbee glanced over to Longshot, who had his eyebrows raised. Well? Was she going to test it out?

"Hell no. I'm not touching it - that's all you."

He gave a faint shake of the head, and Smellerbee pouted, stamping a foot. "I don't care. This creeps me out too, and you know it." If he kept this up, Longshot would find himself on the receiving end of killer puppy dog eyes; that always got her the things she wanted, be it from Jet or Longshot, and this wouldn't be an exception.

Longshot was perceptive, though - he could sense it coming on, she didn't have to read him to know _that_ much, and rather than protest, he - he shrugged? He did, he shrugged and let his eyes slide shut. What the hell kind of tack was he taking now...? He unwound the bandages wrapped around his left hand, a small frown lighting across his face.

Well, that was alright. If she was too girly to touch ostrich horse poop, then -

"I am not _too_ girly to touch ostrich horse poop!" She snarled, heat rising up into her cheeks. Bristling, Smellerbee felt her shoulders tense up; she'd lashed out, the objection had exploded from her without warning, and the trap sprang shut around her, binding her. With a venomous curse, she crouched back down again; it was too late to back out now. He'd seen her ploy coming from a mile away, baited her, and let her pride serve as the momentum that carried her the rest of the way. Grumbling, "You jerk," under her breath (she knew he heard her), she tore away the glove on her right hand and bit her tongue to keep herself from gagging.

Grainy, soft - warm, beneath her fingertips, and, and, and, _ew_! She withdrew her hand as quickly as if a spider snake had nipped at her, fighting away the burbling queasiness that had thrummed up in her chest.

"It's still warm," she snapped, not looking at Longshot - at the inquisitive glance he fixed her with as she clambered up and towards the bog, grabbing an abrasive leaf on her way...at his coy, victorious smirk for having won this small battle. She'd pay him back later with noogies and arm-punches.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

Wait - there!

Smellerbee came to a stop as Longshot rushed from the path, unslinging his bow and quiver before plunging into the nearest body of water. The swordswoman hiked an eyebrow - saw the grin on Longshot's face - and beamed when Longshot leaned over and scooped up a pale, cone-shaped item from the crook of a tree root half-submerged in the mire. He held it up triumphantly - the hat, the one he had bought in Ba Sing Se!

Spirits knew how it got there (sincerely, they probably did), but now the archer had it back in his possession, and he couldn't hide his giddiness from Smellerbee for all the world as he tied the cloth straps beneath his chin.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

Through the boughs of the trees clustered overhead, the pale yellow daylight faded, turning the color of moon peaches; the day had felt long to the swordswoman, but the onset of evening brought up fresh problems. The trail the ostrich horses left was still red hot; breaking away from it now meant losing the entire afternoon's progress, as there was no telling how far the creatures would travel.

Longshot pointed this out to Smellerbee with a sideways glance, and the tomboy frowned. "I know. There's that, and I don't know if they could survive a night alone here, smart as they are. We don't know what kind of weird nocturnal animals live around here."

He nodded; by the same token, they might be in trouble themselves. Probably not, because it wasn't like they couldn't defend themselves, but...

The tacked-on addendum drew a snort of distaste from the swordswoman. Smellerbee pushed aside a veil of vines hanging from a tree branch, only for it to give way to another canvas of greens and browns. She hung her head and sighed. "If only we could make this move faster, like taking it up to the trees - "

Smellerbee's eyes widened and she jerked her head up; she let out another loud, venomous curse before slamming her forehead with the palm of her hand. Longshot rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently; heat flooding her cheeks, the younger Freedom Fighter managed to bring her eyes up to meet his. His lips curled, only slightly, but the way his eyebrows had arched told her that the smirk wasn't one of his faux-pretentiousness ones, but rather a sheepish one that belied empathy. He hadn't thought to use the trees at all, let alone that he'd be able to pick the trail up even from their boughs.

At least the mortification was mutual.

She glanced over to the nearest tree, gauged its climbability (giving it a positive score: certainly nothing as grandiose as a Hong Ye tree, but the gnarled branches and the rough, mossy bark would lend itself well to a fast climb and quick, easy transit that beat hoofing it), and reached up, clawing the rough, warm bark and hoisting herself up.

"You know, The Duke would like this tree, I think." The swordswoman grunted and poked her tongue out between her teeth, a grin lighting across her face. Thinking of the youngest Core Freedom Fighter (although not the youngest Freedom Fighter overall) in his element left her feeling pure, light - childlike. He'd been given his name for his tree-climbing skill, after all, thanks to a brand of logic only Pipsqueak could have utilized. "He would have liked the challenge."

Heh. From beneath her, his boots scraping the tree as they clambered upward, Longshot smirked. Yeah, he would have.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

The swamp's trees weren't like the towering, stoic guardians of Hong Ye, with golden, unmarred bark and the protective canopy of brilliant crimson. Nope; the swamp's trees huddled closer to the ground, stooped and gnarled from the lowest root to the highest branch, green and yellow leaves draped downward, a blanket of normality that made Smellerbee forlorn for richer colors. The boughs were slick with moss, warped with arthritic knuckles, and - even though they were giants in their own right - by comparison to the might of Hong Ye's, they were squat, stumpy, awkward. If Hong Ye's trees were like Pipsqueak, the swamp's were more akin to Sneers.

The bugs were the worst, though - clouds of flies and gnats assaulted the air, each other, and especially the Freedom Fighters, threatening to clog their eyes, choke them, if they weren't careful enough to bow their heads and close their mouths.

This place was different in so many ways. Still...

Something about springing from one branch to the next, from landing in a crouch only to push off again at a different angle, zig-zagging through the air and using her body weight to keep the momentum up, the wind whistling at her face, combing through her hair, muscles and joints burning, sore, from the physical exertion, from bleary-eyed muscle-memory waking after a long slumber, following the only swath of blue in sight (Longshot's tunic)...it revitalized another old part of Smellerbee that she hadn't felt in a long time. As she dove through the air, the wind yowling in her ears, her hair whipping in and out of the corners of her vision, she landed in a crouch on a wide branch, the soles of her boots scraping the bark; she vaulted away before the impact could jar up through her body, reaching out for a vine and wrapping both hands around it, swinging, allowing her momentum to carry her forward.

It had been over a season since she'd danced through the protective boughs of a forest, and for all the swamp's differences, it very much felt like being home again. The corners of her mouth quirked up into a grin.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

It took a half hour, and with the sunlight waning, they finally tracked the ostrich horses down; they'd settled in the center of a small glade, their scaled, muscular legs folded beneath their bodies, nickering and croaking at each other. The din of wildlife hadn't settled down, and even from here, Smellerbee could see clouds of gnats zipping around each other.

Hunkered down in the protective branches of a tree, Longshot standing beside her with his head bowed, Smellerbee scrutinized the glade; this was a trap, and something - human or otherwise - waited for the two Freedom Fighters to make their move. She could tell - the beasts' placement was too convenient, too open, and the heavy sensation of lurking danger weighed down on her shoulders, the air ripe with pending tension. If this was another one of the Spirits' pranks, trying to find physical evidence of the snare would be a wasted effort, because Hell Jet had been so convincing as to be real (she remembered his sword impaling the tree so vividly, the bark splitting around his blade, only to be unmarred when the phantom vanished), and what Longshot had told her of ZomBee only furthered her conviction. Hell, the ostrich horses themselves could have been illusions - they might even have spent the entire day following a make-believe trail, because the warm, soft, grittiness of their poop had felt as vivid as every time her swords clashed with Hell Jet's. But if it wasn't the work of the Spirits...

Her gaze flickered over to Longshot, and the archer (to his credit), read her unspoken question with a nod. He brought a hand up, tapping two fingers against the back of her neck, right at the base of her skull - right where the throbbing headache pulsated, gnawing at her brain this entire freaking trip. She narrowed her eyes as recognition flooded her from beneath Longshot's touch; this ambush was definitely _not_ a spiritual prank, because the headache would have escalated into a sharp migraine, just as it had for their hallucinations. It'd have been set by people, but she'd be damned if she could spot which direction it'd come from; nothing felt out of place, no strange marks in nearby grass or brush, no telltale movements or hushed whispers that weren't bestial. She wasn't the best tracker in the world, nor was Longshot, but there should have been at least _some_ yield, even a tiny speck of a hint. She glanced over to the archer again, posing the silent question - could _he_ find any tells? - but he shrugged, a frown creasing his jaw. She was right; whoever waited for them was _good_.

With a sigh, Smellerbee hung her head and planted one hand on the branch she crouched on. It was a little weird that they wouldn't encounter any other humans up until now - after spending all day slogging through this damn mire (then again, the swamp had looked pretty huge on the map), it didn't seem like anyone could possibly live here. So - foreigners? Other people who had invaded the swamp? Too many variables, and she felt helpless not being able to sniff out the signs.

So...what should they do, then?

Smellerbee glanced at Longshot and pursed her lips. There wasn't an easy way to convey that silently, and she didn't have his eloquence in the language; instead, she brought a fist up to her mouth and whistled, a bird-call, the best way to communicate without properly speaking. _'The only thing we __can__ do was wait it out, hope that our would-be assailants would get sloppy and eventually expose themselves, and that the ostrich horses wouldn't run off again for the interim.'_

That could take a while, though.

'_Well - it wasn't like we hadn't cut through here to save time.' _She returned her gaze to the glade and sighed. '_They could spare as much time as necessary - '_

She didn't get to finish the message. She sprang away from the branch as a wave of water lurched up at them, her joints and muscles sore, gratified from the recent exertion; the water surged up, dousing the branch before gravity reclaimed it, splattering back to the swamp's surface. The wind seared Smellerbee's face again, the rank gristle of swamp-smell flooding her nose. The ground, a dirty, muddy green blotch of motion, hurtled up at her; she tucked her knees into her chest, hit the ground, rolled and grunted as her shoulder scraped a knuckled root, springing up to her feet. She unsheathed Jet's swords, whirling them around in flickering crescents of brown-orange sunlight; Longshot landed beside her, drawing his bow and nocking an arrow, aiming for their enemies, emerging from the brush -

A second spray of water rushed up and slammed her in the side, sending her sprawling onto her back. She grunted, and over the sound of her body impacting the ground, she heard the ostrich horses screech and croak, if their assailants had _hurt_ the creatures, she'd, she'd - Longshot sprawling down to the ground beside her, they both shoved up to their feet, sopping wet, and...

"Nahce goin', Due!"

The low, throaty drawl was enough to make Smellerbee wince; side and back throbbing with fresh pain, worse than the headache, she hissed through clenched teeth. She tightened her grip on the swords' hilts, crouching down, ready to pounce, but - but their attackers...

They filtered in between the trees of the glade, most of them men, although Smellerbee could spot a few women amongst them; each one was naked save for loincloths made of vines and foliage and pointed hats made of single leaves the size of a sky bison's foot, and chest armor cut from tree bark. Smellerbee let a mental curse fall; there were over a dozen of them just by estimating, and the close quarters didn't work to Longshot's favor. Even then, something still felt wrong about the scenario; the way the swamp people held a steady stance while unarmed meant that they were benders, and if the fact that she was currently sopping wet wasn't enough of a giveaway, she figured they were Waterbenders - not Earth or Firebenders. Each realization came within a half-second of each other, followed by one last one: these eccentric, nekkid "Swampbenders" hadn't actually attacked short of flushing the Freedom Fighters from their hiding spot and keeping them off their balance. They waited, held back - but not pensive, no, these people weren't trained warriors. They left themselves off guard...grrrn.

She sighed, the muscles in her shoulders tensing. Clarity shone brighter than the sun's light piercing fog; there was only one way to guarantee they survive this. The Swampbenders were on the defensive as much as the Freedom Fighters were, and if she didn't back down first...

So, she brought the swords down and (with no small amount of will power) unclenched her fists, the hilts and hand guards slipping from beneath her palm, both blades clattering to the rough, hard-packed ground, the noise echoing and rebounding beneath the canopy, losing itself to the natural call of the animal life. Smellerbee felt Longshot's gaze on her - was she sure this was the right thing to do? The swordswoman met his eyes from the corner of her own and gave a small nod. He nodded in return and let his bow fall from his hands, dropping the arrows he'd nocked as well.

"We surrender," she said, her voice clear enough to be heard over the din of the swamp. She brought her hands up, palms out, her gloves now a grimy once-white color - she hadn't gotten to properly clean them since Lake Laogai. "We're not here to hurt you."

"Ah dunno," the nearest of the Swampbenders cautioned, his stance remaining firm, if not gangly; the man stood at least a foot and a half taller than Smellerbee, his body thin and his jaw covered in a thick shadow of scruff. Smellerbee could see a patch of dark hair under his arms and fought off a small bite of revile; on top of their...minimalist attire and modest appearance, they clearly didn't care much for personal hygiene. "Ah mean, ya been sneakin' through th' swamp all day, not even botherin' ta hollar our way...it's rahght unfriendly of ya."

"We didn't know there were people living here." Smellerbee insisted, keeping her hands level with her head. She stole a glance over to Longshot again, who met her gaze and gave a minute nod. He agreed with her train of thought, which gave the tomboy a huge bolster; it made the situation a little easier. Between them, the ostrich horses had clambered to their feet and croaked; they could feel the tension in the air, and Smellerbee wanted to drain it before they took off again. "We were just trying to take a shortcut towards Omashu."

"Thet's what them Fahr Nation fellers sed, only in reverse!" piped up another one; this man was squat and round, compared to the first one to speak, his the vast expanse of his stomach spilling over the leaf loin cloth. Even though this new speaker held a bending stance like his buddies, he also clutched a tree branch in one hand, wielding it like a club - a striking, if not sense-offending resemblance to Pipsqueak. Even through his own scruff-lined jaw, a childlike gleam lit in his eyes, reflecting the fading dusk's light, and a new thought occurred to Smellerbee; these people were just like any others, only more naked and...eclectic, she guessed, drudging up The Duke's word again. "They wanted t'cut through th' swamp ta git ta Ba Sing Se from Omashu; how d'we know y'all ain't some Fahr Nation goons, sent here ta catch us with our leaves down?"

"Ah dunno, Tho," the thin one said again, turning to the shorter man and shrugging. "Them all look younger'n th' guys thet tried t' burn us down b'fore."

"True, they are jes' polycoons, Ah reckon." The fat one - Tho - stroked his jaw and gave a thoughtful frown at his lanky friend. "But still - we cain't trus' jes' anybody come walkin' through these parts, Due. Ah say we run 'em out back th' way they came!"

"No no no no, please - we're not Firebenders and we don't work for the Fire Nation." Dread began to set in; as large a mistake as it had been to cut through the swamp rather than go around, it had still been safer, comparatively. Ghosts and illusions, tracking down ostrich horses, almost-naked Waterbenders with questionable hygiene? Those were manageable problems. An insurmountable number of Fire Nation troops that spanned further than the eye could see, however, was not, and the Freedom Fighter could feel their last chance at safety slipping away. Knowing that the Fire Nation had attacked them - that they were only on the defensive because they wanted to keep out a shared enemy (a tactic the Freedom Fighters had to assume frequently back home), fighting their way through would be - disrespectful? Yes, a spit into the face of what they were on the trip to Ba Sing Se - what they had remained, because while the goal was different, the means for getting there were the same. "I - I have no way to prove it. But you have to trust us. We just need to go through, we don't want anything more than that."

The Swampbenders as a whole seemed to give pause, as if waiting for Tho or Due to add to the conversation; both looked at each other, first, before turning back to Smellerbee and Longshot. Tho wore a cynical expression, his brow furrowed and his lower lip pouted out somewhat; Due's stance slackened, just barely, and Smellerbee perceived the embers of doubt flickering in his eyes.

"I - we're refugees," Smellerbee continued, searching for the right hook to snare her audience. She'd never been very good at this sort of thing, though; Jet had been the one whose silver tongue weaved just the right story, tugged the right heartstrings of those who listened, and as much as Smellerbee admired him, had learned from him, it was a skill that just didn't come to her (though not for lack of trying). "We ran to Ba Sing Se, the two of us and our friend, and things just didn't work out. We need to get to Omashu to find some other friends so we can stop being on the run - so we can fight the Fire Nation, so we can keep the battle going. Keep hope alive for the world."

"Why would ya go an' do that fer?" Tho demanded, smacking his makeshift club into the palm of his hand. "Th' Avatar's out there doin' what he cin fer ev'ryone; th' way you're treatin' it, it's like he's gone an' kicked th' bucket!"

"..." Smellerbee hung her head. Well...here went nothing. "He...he is. The Avatar is dead."

Murmurs rippled from all directions as the Swampbenders digested the information; they knew of the Avatar, at least, but Smellerbee felt like there was more that could be dug up; she stole a quick glance to Longshot, who nodded at her once again and flashed the faintest hint of a smile.

She'd found her hook. Now it was time to reel them in.


	4. Book 3, Chapter 4

_**Where Words Fail**_

**Book Three: A Test of Faith**

**Chapter 4: Stand up, put your feet on the ground, face the fire, don't let it get you down**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This story is a fan fiction - nothing more, nothing less. It has been made purely for entertainment purposes, and is not meant for commercial gain. Avatar: The Last Airbender and all characters, places and concepts are copyright of Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. All original characters are copyright their respective owners and are used with their permission. The story has been illustrated by the talented and awesome SioUte, and this chapter's cover can be found here:

sioute(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/WWF-3-4-138756841

**SCENE DIVIDE**

It amazed Longshot at how quickly the swamp-based Waterbenders could get their act together; they escorted the two Freedom Fighters and their ostrich horses, heading east - towards Omashu, towards the swamp's heart. Longshot and Smellerbee made their way on the river's edge, their mounts honking and croaking at each other, jostling their riders; the Swampbenders (maybe not all of them actually _were_ Benders, but it didn't make much difference, did it?) rode narrow, wooden boats, one person sitting in the rear, controlling the rudder, while another stood at the front, propelling them along with Waterbending.

"Y'all met th' Avatar, too, huh?" Tho explained from his kayak, his baritone voice cutting through the din of nocturnal life. His hand thumped against the side of his boat in a rhythmic fashion, his voice following suit, as if he were reciting a poem. "Kinda funny how that works out. He an' his buddies were here a whiles back. We was fixin' ta eat his lemu an' sky bison, an' Ah s'pose we was fortunate things din't work out so well."

"Ah reckon so," Due agreed, standing at the boat's bow. He thrust his arms forward, at eye-level, and parted the air in a broad, sweeping motion - like swimming, almost. The water's surface rippled and glistened beneath the stars and moonlight. "Weren't long ago that th' Fahr Nation tried t'cut through th'swamp; th' swamp don't take none too kindly t' gettin' hurt...we din't much care 'bout th' war or anythin' beforehand, since it din't really effect us none. All that mattered t'us was makin' sure our home was safe. When the Fahr Nation showed up..."

From a few feet ahead, Smellerbee nodded. "The Fire Nation cuts through our forest, making supply runs to nearby towns they've occupied. We push 'em back when we can, but Hong Ye is a big place and we only have..._had_ nineteen kids with us. We do what we can."

"Sure 'nuff."

"So, where are we going, anyway?" Bee asked, brushing away a few stray locks of hair that had gotten into her eyes; Longshot felt something in his chest tighten upon seeing the motion, and his breath came out tight, almost like being squeezed by a giant hand. Things had been like that all day; every miniscule, diminutive thing the tomboy did was a mark of her character, of the person she was, of her identity, and ever since being confronted by the ZomBee, appreciation for those quirks glowed within his abdomen like the light of a firefly.

No, that was too stiff - too melancholy. Maybe 'appreciation' didn't do his feelings enough justice. That sort of stuff - being proud of the person Smellerbee was, not taking her for granted - didn't cause his throat to tingle, like he'd swallowed a flock of flutterflies. It didn't make him feel like he could take Aang's glider and soar into the heavens - like if he strapped enough leaves to his arms and jumped from a high enough branch, he'd be able to fly through the boughs of the forest. Smellerbee had tried that once, and maybe it _hadn't_ just been the altitude that she'd needed.

Appreciation didn't make him feel like laughing to the sound of her voice, a wellspring of mirth bubbling over to the harsh, raspy whisper that told him, without fail, that she was still there. That he hadn't let her down. She'd know he wouldn't be doing it to be an ass, and join in the laughter too.

Appreciation _certainly_ didn't make him want to - to hold her, to cup her cheek in his hands, calloused fingertips and all, to nuzzle into the warm comfort of her shaggy, moss-brown hair. No, this was a step above basic sensibility, and Longshot felt strange knowing that it lingered both inside and overhead.

Smellerbee could feel it, too; he could tell, the way that they would look at each other during the passage of the hours beforehand, and how he would catch either himself or her just smiling; no real reason had to crop up (although plenty had regardless), and it had all started with the kiss that had brushed featherlight on his cheek below the swamp's surface.

So - did that make it love, then? Longshot narrowed his eyes, staring ahead into the blackening abyss made by trees and moss and water. They'd known each other, been best friends, for upwards of six years - hell, he'd been the one to name her, and they'd had unrivaled synergy in the Freedom Fighters. When times got tough, they always had each other; sure, Jet and the rest had been there, but it never felt the same. Smellerbee could read Longshot without trying, and she'd never assumed he was mute or simple.

He glanced at her again, watching her hair bounce as her ostrich horse plodded along the shore, saw how she rolled her head and rotated her shoulders, trying to nurse out the sores that had overrun her throughout the day. The tingling sensation in his throat flitted back to life and he was quick to throw on a mask of stoicism so the Swampbenders wouldn't be able to see him beaming. Maybe it wasn't fully-fledged love, not yet, but the inklings were there and it was undeniable that it went both ways.

So, love and a heaping dose of karma. That worked.

True to his name, Longshot liked those odds, and felt his cheeks tighten despite his best efforts. He feigned a thoughtful frown, again purely for the Swampbenders' detraction; Smellerbee would have been able to see through it as if he held a sheet of glass up to his face.

So lost in thought, he didn't realize something was wrong until Smellerbee brought her ostrich horse to a stop and unsheathed one of Jet's swords, hunching over, body tense; Longshot pulled in the reins of his steed and drew his bow, nocking an arrow, aiming it at - yes, there, a gargantuan, inkblot form shambling through the bog, a mound of glistening, interwoven weeds and vines folded over each other like a robe. Arms as thick as tree trunks sloughed down, swaying as the creature - monster, demon, Spirit - something, indefinable - sloshed towards them. Set against the silver moonlight, an angled plank of tree bark hung from the front, shaped to look like a mask, the only detail being two eye holes. It rose a massive arm and pushed away low-hanging foliage, and - was it real, or just another hallucination -

He didn't get to finish the thought as Due stood up out of his Bending pose and tossed a casual hand up into the air, a smile wriggling across his stubbly cheeks.

"Hey there, Huu!" The tall Swampbender called, waving at the vine-demon. "We found them fellers ya told us about! Turns out they ain't Fahr Nation at all!"

"Well, that's certainly good to hear," the vine-demon - Huu - replied, its arms lowering so the tips of the vines slipped beneath the water's surface. The monster's belly split open with a nauseating slurping sound, the vines peeling back and away to reveal - what? - another Swampbender, older than the rest, with a backswept, windblown mane of gray hair. This one wore the leaf loincloth as the others did, but the frond hat was absent. Round and soft and a little bigger than Tho, he had an upturned nose and a broad, knowing grin that carried a pinch of childlike amusement, and a subtle, soft wisdom that reminded Longshot of the old man from the ferry. He couldn't have been any older that fifty, and his accent was softer, as if he'd come from elsewhere and only come to live in the swamp later in life, picking up native diction. "But it means Ah gathered all these vines together for nothing. Sort of a waste; Ah was hoping I'd get to frighten someone."

"Huu, this here's a pair o' kids who done traveled with the Avatar," Tho said. "Names're Smellerbee an' Longshot. Y'all, that there is Huu."

Huu chuckled and patted his stomach. "It's a pleasure to have you in Foggy Swamp, even if you're just passing through, Freedom Fighters."

"Thanks, we - what?" Smellerbee dismounted her ostrich horse. She scratched her head and craned her neck back to meet Huu's gaze through the murk - his eyes glistened like the surface of the river, easy to pick out even in the gloom. "How did you know we're Freedom Fighters? And how did you make that...vine monster thing...?"

"Ah, this." Huu lifted his right hand up, and the same arm on the vine demon mimicked the motion. "Ah just bend the water inside the vines. Most Waterbenders don't even realize. Oh, and Smellerbee?"

"Yeah...?" The swordsman tensed just a little bit; Longshot slipped down to the ground, lurching as the ground tried to slurp one of his boots down. He grunted, struggled - yanked it free and walked over to her, laying a hand on her shoulder. Huu raised his hand up a little higher, but the vine demon's arm sloughed downward, useless; the Swampbender flicked his wrist, two fingers extended, and from the canopy drooped a bundle of vines, cradling - something about a foot and a half long, glistening and sharp, and...

Smellerbee heaved a giddy squeal and plunged her hand into the ropey coils and yanked free the serrated knife Longshot had bought her in Ba Sing Se.

"My dagger!" She cried, a grin splitting her face - wide, sincere, and the flutterflies in Longshot's throat threatened to leap from out his mouth and start dancing in the sky, all for her. Her smile was infectious, his cheeks tingling, itching uncontrollably, a grin pulling up on his face; her ecstasy at finding the weapon, and that the dagger meant that much to her was enough to make his vision blur. "How did you find it?"

"Ah'll explain that and the answer to your first question in the morning," Huu said, casting his gaze skyward. "For the time being, Ah think a good old fashioned swamp dinner is in order. We can trade tales over the fire, an' you can experience some swamp cuisine."

**SCENE DIVIDE**

"...Ah see," Huu murmured, stroking his jaw and frowning. "So you're striking out to bring the remnants of your group back together."

"That's the general idea." Smellerbee waved around what was left of a giant fly in one hand; the insect had started out larger than her fist, and the swordswoman had been admirable in downing it. Longshot didn't have the same resolution; he picked at the abdomen of his own, peeling away chips of the shiny exoskeleton covered in coarse, short hairs like a stubborn child playing with his food in a desperate bid to prolong having to actually _eat_ it. The thought of eating the insects appealed to him less than a throwing knife to the arm, but the memory of rotten apples and burrowing through garbage was enough to remind him that food was food, regardless of how disgusting. "If Aang is dead, there needs to be someone that's willing to continue fighting the Fire Nation. We can't let them win the war. I don't think the world could recover from that."

"They're getting more tenacious as time goes on," Huu admitted, nodding at the Freedom Fighters.

Even though night had long since settled over the swamp, the air hadn't gotten any less muggy, and the bugs still choked the air, buzzing and humming at each other and in any ears they happened to drift near (Longshot brushed an obnoxious gnat away with a grunt). Occasionally, a screech owl would holler, shattering the nighttime air, making the archer wince. (If it bothered Smellerbee as much, it didn't show.) Longshot shifted his weight, the dirt rugged against his butt, sweat percolating on his brow. He wiped it with the back of one hand; between the hallucinations, the bugs, the climate and the (ugh) 'cuisine,' he was more than ready to just get out of this swamp and be done with it. Only Smellerbee's company made it tolerable - and thinking about her made him hot all over again, and this time it had nothing to do with the atmosphere.

"So, what's your story, then?" Smellerbee asked, her gaze flickering to all the assembled Swampbenders. While Huu, Tho and Due sat closest to the fire, the others hung around behind them, wandering over to the pot of steamed bugs for second helpings. "What did the Fire Nation do to you guys? Why're you against 'em?"

"Used t'be that we weren't," Due said, hiking his eyebrows up. He grunted and reached around himself with his free hand, tracking down an itch and struggling to reach it. "We were jes' simple folk livin' in th' swamp lahk normal. Them Fahr Nation fellers trahd t'cut through th' swamp, all literal-lahk, with machetes and all, an' when th' swamp fought back, they up an' tried t'burn it down."

Wait - he meant that when the Swampbenders started to fight back, right? Longshot glanced over to Smellerbee, who relayed the question to Due.

"Naw, we din't even know any better a'first," the lanky Swampbender replied, attention half-affixed to the Freedom Fighters as he persisted after his itch. "Th' swamp drove off th' first bunch of 'em bah itself."

"You've probably felt it by now," Huu said, leaning forward and holding one hand up, his eyes glittering in the firelight. "The swamp is a living thing...all the plants are connected to one another, growing from one single organism. The Spirits are awfully fond of this place...so it's really no surprise it's taken on a life of its own. Still, the swamp couldn't keep the Fire Nation off by itself, so once we found out they were trying to force their way through, we fought back along with it."

"The Fire Nation's going around the swamp to reach Ba Sing Se, which is why we decided to go through it." Smellerbee popped the remnants of her giant fly into her mouth and chewed. "Whahever shoo did t'em lasht tine shcared 'en good."

"Scaring folks is kind of a specialty of mine." Huu grinned. "And while it's good to know the Fire Nation has learned its lesson, it makes me wonder what's next in store for us."

Longshot - still fretting over his 'meal,' stalling for as long as he could before having to take a bite out of the insect - leaned forward, cradling his chin in his free hand. A frown flickered across his jaw; if this were the Freedom Fighters, Jet would have had the Swampbenders should go on the offensive, knowing that they had the psychological advantage over their enemies. But the Swampbenders weren't anything like the ragtag group of orphans living in the forest; aside from their recent encounters with the Fire Nation, these culturally backwards men and women lived lives secluded from the rest of the world, and they didn't have any grudge to bear against the invaders. The Freedom Fighters, on the other hand, only existed _because_ of the Fire Nation, because of the war; the archer couldn't justify any reason he'd come up with for these peaceful, if not backwater people taking a battle to enemies they no longer had. If anything, that would only convince the Fire Nation that the swamp was worth their time and effort to burn down.

"You're right," Smellerbee whispered, leaning in close to Longshot and frowning. "It's not our place to say that sort of thing, and I'd feel terrible for condemning someone who fed us. Are you gonna finish that giant fly?"

Longshot glanced down at the insect in his palm; even though most of the chitinous armor had been stripped away, he felt his resolve drop as he took in the multisegmented eyes and gossamer wings of the dead creature, and the pale, cream-colored 'meat' beneath the parts he'd successfully skinned, glistening against the firelight. With a sigh, he resigned himself to eating some of the steamed veggies the Swampbenders had prepared instead, and relinquished the bug over to the tomboy. He'd go fishing tomorrow, if the opportunity presented itself.

**SCENE DIVIDE**

They didn't talk very long into the night; the Swampbenders dispersed for the most part, leaving just Huu, Due and Tho with the Freedom Fighters and their ostrich horses. While the archer was leery to go to sleep knowing that the hallucinations could attack again, Huu promised a peaceful night's rest, saying that the Spirits wouldn't "try that trick again" knowing they'd befriended the Swampbenders. When Bee demanded what "that trick" was, exactly, Huu simply shrugged the question off with a grin, saying everything would be cleared up the following morning.

The same three Benders had roused Smellerbee and Longshot come sunrise, and so the archer and the swordswoman followed them through the thickets and marshes, which became increasingly sparser as they traveled. Leading their ostrich horses by the reins, the Freedom Fighters exchanged light talk with their hosts, Huu playfully ambiguous in his answers whenever Smellerbee probed with further questions.

"Just wait...the explanation is more dramatic with the right visual aid." The elder Swampbender grinned; Smellerbee huffed at his back, her shoulders bunching up, lips pursing, just like she'd do at home when she didn't get her way - a delightful, adorable habit of hers Longshot hoped she never outgrew. Still, the archer appreciated the old man's taste for flair, even in a dank, pungent place like this.

"Woooee!" Tho whooped, casting a glance at the river beside them. "Sum big fish in th' river t'day! Ol' Slim's gonna have hisself a rahght feast 'fore midday sets in!"

Tho's hoot drew Longshot's attention to the river beside them; beneath the murky brown surface of the water, oblong silhouettes darted back and forth, some as big as his fist, and the sight itself made his belly rumble. The archer bowed his head and frowned; he hadn't had the time to go fishing like he'd planned, and while he didn't mind getting answers from the old Swampbender, the promise and allure of meat that _wasn't_ a bug made his mouth start to water.

Oh well. It was on the to-do list, then.

"Who's Ol' Slim?" Smellerbee asked, casting a glance over to Tho.

The rotund Swampbender slapped his stomach and laughed. "Ol' Slim is a catfish 'gator thet we been raisin' since he was a pup. He lives in th' river an' heps bah eatin' any strangers he finds; he's pretty much part of th' family."

Smellerbee glanced at Longshot, and the archer hiked an eyebrow; they were fortunate, then, that they hadn't encountered Ol' Slim sooner. Smellerbee nodded a silent agreement.

"Aha - here we are." Huu's voice drew Longshot's attention forward, where their path was blocked off by a curtain of vines; the Swampbender turned back to face those following behind him, but his attention fixed directly on the Freedom Fighters. "What Ah'm about to show you is the source of everything you're wondering about in the swamp. An' like a lot of people before you, it may even give you a few answers about yourselves."

He didn't wait for Smellerbee to respond; Longshot watched as Huu turned to the vines and spread his arms out, parting them and unveiling what lay beyond.

"Whoa," Smellerbee murmured. Longshot tipped the brim of his hat back and stared upward; he cast a nonverbalized echo to the tomboy's wonder, absorbing the heart of the swamp with wide eyes.

A massive banyan tree - towering higher, its boughs splayed further than any in the Hong Ye Forest - dominated the entire area ahead of them, its goliath roots wriggling and sloping downhill, preventing any larger vegetation from growing. It left Longshot feeling like the tree was so enormous, so important, so majestic in its splendor, that no other trees dared grow any closer than the wall surrounding it, as if afraid they'd offend it. The trunk twisted and weaved, scraping the sky with its canopy, branches and roots alike swollen and arthritic - but healthy, vibrant, regardless of appearance.

Huu led the party into the clearing, spreading one arm overhead as they moved, indicating the tree. "You can leave your ostrich horses here for the time being; Tho, Due, watch over the critters for 'em, wouldja? It'll make the climb a little easier."

The archer cast a quick glance at the nearest of the two Swampbenders - Due - before passing the reins over to him. The Swampbender took the leather straps without a word, meeting Longshot's eyes only fleetingly before nodding up at Huu's retreating back.

"Y'all better follow 'im," Due muttered, a playful grin flitting across his jaw. "Feller's fast fer someone his age."

"Come on," Smellerbee murmured, sidling up beside the archer; she started up, clambering over the knuckled roots, following after Huu, and Longshot grinned. Shrugging, he fell into step behind them.

The tree's bark, a graying, brown color, was rough under Longshot's fingertips; here, beyond the fringe of the clearing, the swamp's natural sounds and odor receded into the background, as if afraid, or even unworthy, of basking in the presence of this God Tree, just as the other trees were. The climb left a thrumming feeling in his throat, and his chakra buzzed in response; The Spirits really _did_ like the swamp, and the archer could only think that the banyan tree served as a receiver or a lure to draw the exalted beings in. Awe welled up inside him the closer to the tree's trunk they became.

"Gnrr." A glance leftward revealed Smellerbee massaging the base of her skull, a scowl on her face; while Longshot felt a spike of pity for the swordswoman - migraines serving as the basis for her Spiritual awareness - this, like everything else she had been doing this morning, made him love her even more. Still, he rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it, realizing it would be asinine to do nothing.

"Thanks, Longshot," Smellerbee murmured, turning to him and flashing a grin. "'S what I get, I think, for denyin' the Spirits for so long. Maybe one day they'll tell me they're around with something a little less obnoxious."

He gave her a tiny, almost non-existent smirk; she was taking the revolution to her entire spiritual belief system admirably well, especially given their recent troubles.

"Well, it's a matter of takin' it all in stride, I figure," she replied, shrugging. "I mean...yeah, I didn't believe in the Spirits before. I was so sure of it, but thinkin' back, a lot of what I believe in came from Jet. His bitterness, his attitude towards life, his rage for the Fire Nation...it all made a lot of sense, you know?" She drew a low breath as they climbed over the next knuckle of the tree's roots. Longshot let his gaze flicker forward momentarily; talking with Smellerbee made the hike faster, and it set him at ease hearing her voice. "In hindsight, a lot of that stuff wasn't _my_ opinion. So I guess it's ironic that Jet's also helped this change of heart."

Longshot turned his attention back to her and hiked an eyebrow. How did she mean that? Did thinking about Jet's attitude help bring about the change? His fingers brushed against soft, warm moss as they ascended further.

"Well, kinda." Smellerbee's eyelids slid shut for a moment, but she was quick to open them and glance skyward, the tree undoubtedly blocking most of the blue out. "That, plus...Jet was a passionate person. He was so full of life...so vibrant, so real. Tangible. It's hard to imagine that a person who can love so unconditionally and hate so profoundly can just stop existing. I don't think Jet would let that sort of thing happen to himself." She bowed her head and chuckled. "He would have fought off Death all by himself if it came down to that. Something _has_ to exist beyond mortality, and I believe Jet's there."

Longshot swallowed, the flutterflies in his throat whirling themselves into chaos; his heart felt ready to burst, his vision blurred, and he felt a smile - a true, wide smile - split his face. Of course she was right; it made perfect sense, now that it had been said. (Like most concepts and ideas, putting them into audible words gave them substantial weight that Longshot couldn't deny.) Jet had been too vivid to simply fade out of existence, and the Spirit World was where the souls of people who had shed their mortal bonds were said to go...so maybe Jet found himself at peace, wherever he was. Longshot gave his friend a grateful nod, wiping the threatening tears away with the back of his other hand. Thank you.

"Hey, don't worry about it," Smellerbee whispered. "It's the only way I can keep thinking about Jet without crying. I'm glad I could finally...you know...pass it on to you."

**SCENE DIVIDE**

The base of the tree alone rose so high as to almost match the tops of the boughs belonging to those beyond the clearing; it was beneath the protective expanse of the banyan tree's branches that Longshot's chakras flared with the most pressure. He knew that if he walked around to the other side and began climbing down, the pressure would recede, like the tide going out at night; the animated sensation of the swamp as a whole felt the most palpable here.

"I reached enlightenment under the branches of the banyan tree," Huu explained, stretching one arm overhead. Longshot turned his attention to the silver-haired Swampbender, his cocoa-colored gaze absorbing the green, bushy leaves above. "I learned that death is simply an illusion, amongst other things that I once viewed as a necessity. A roof over your head. Weapons. The status of the world. Pants."

Longshot crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. Listening to the elder Swampbender reminded him a lot of Sneers, if you took away the arrogance; the man had been raised as a monk, taught that material possessions were irrelevant, that they simply distracted from a true and pure life. According to Sneers, those sort of things were best left discarded...but it had never stopped him from appreciating Skillet's soba, or the body armor he had pinched off an Earth Kingdom general.

"Sounds like a monastic way of life," Smellerbee summed, reading Longshot's train of thought and relaying it to Huu.

"Pretty much. But it's helped me to learn so much more. Like how a Waterbender can manipulate plants with even the tiniest bit of water in 'em." He grinned. "And most importantly of all, Ah've learned that everything in this swamp is interconnected; this massive tree is the swamp's heart, and everything else - the other plant life, the animals that live here, the ponds - all originated from here. It's part of how we knew you were coming; as soon as we stumbled across your ostrich horses - with saddles and reins and gear - it was obvious somebody who wasn't a native had found their way here. Oh, and don't worry about translating for your friend...I understand him well enough to get what he's saying."

Longshot felt his eyes go wide; he stole a glance to Smellerbee and saw a similar expression scrawled on her face. Turning back to Huu, the archer set his mouth into a grim line; how had the Swampbender been able to read him?

Huu patted the trunk of the tree affectionately before sitting down against it, crossing his legs and planting his hands on his thighs. "Oh, I doubt I understand you as well as Smellerbee, but when you've lived in a place like this for as long as I have, you learn to pay attention to the little details."

The archer stared at him for a moment before casting his gaze outward, away from the tree, over the swamp; that made sense, he guessed, but the elder bender still had yet to explain how, exactly, the Swampbenders had been able to find the two Freedom Fighters in the first place, or how Huu had been able to retrieve Bee's dagger and head them off at the same time. The gaps in the story didn't really make Longshot uncomfortable, but the fact that they were there was enough to bother him. Those holes needed filling.

"That's great and all, but you still haven't told us everything," Smellerbee said, cutting in despite Huu's insistence, her voice low and wary. "What's the deal with knowin' we were called Freedom Fighters, and having my dagger?"

(_"My dagger."_ The words were almost enough to make Longshot beam again. He felt fantastic knowing that she'd taken such a liking to the small blade.)

"Everything in the swamp is alive, interconnected." A wise grin split Huu's face. "It really makes for a quick message transportation system, an' it certainly beats messenger hawks. Ah felt some immense Spiritual pressure build up, and used my Bending to channel my sight through the swamp. That's when Ah found you, fighting the ghost of your friend. Saw you throw the knife and leave it behind." His attention turned to Smellerbee, and the swordswoman sat down, a look of disbelief on her face. She unsheathed her knife and pressed the tip into her right index finger, twirling it as she absorbed the Swampbender's story, light enough so that the blade didn't break the fabric of her gloves. This was another habit of hers that Longshot found far too endearing, and soon enough Smellerbee would hunker forward and obscure her mouth with the rotating shimmers cast off by the knife. She did this whenever listening intently, either to a battle plan or a story; this was the first time she'd done it since Jet's death, since escaping Lake Laogai, and the tingling in his throat jumped further towards bliss.

"Ah was able to use the vines to retrieve it," Huu finished, shrugging and spreading his arms. "Ah had a good feeling about you two, since you didn't act so callous to the swamp as the Fire Nation, or even the Avatar and his friends, but Ah still had to be sure."

"Okay, then." Smellerbee's eyes narrowed. "That just leaves the matter of - of Hell Jet and ZomBee."

"Your hallucinations - or rather, the hallucinations we all saw - were culled from the people you were at the time." Huu's expression settled into a grim frown, and he cast his gaze down the sloped roots of the banyan tree. "The swamp shows us people we've lost...people we love. Heck, it could even show us people we haven't met yet in our lifetimes. It's happened to all of us that live here, at one point or another; it happened to the Avatar and his friends, it happened to the Fire Nation soldiers that tried to burn us down (it was far meaner to them than anyone else, trust me). It's not so surprising that it happened to you two as well."

But why did it happen? Longshot's eyes narrowed; his legs sore from standing for so long, he perched himself down beside Smellerbee, the tree bark uncomfortable beneath him, and rested a bandaged hand on her knee. He squeezed it, feeling the rough fabric under his fingertips, the warmth of her body radiating out from beneath the cloth, her knobby knees. It was equally as important to understand _that_ as it was to know what had happened. There was some kind of wisdom, a scrap of knowledge lurking just out of sight; without all the pieces, though, the puzzle couldn't be completed and he wouldn't be able to find the answers hunkered just out of reach in the darkness.

The Swampbender nodded, his silver mane bouncing. "The swamp itself is no different from anywhere or anything else in the world, and yet, because all life in the swamp began with and is connected to the banyan tree, it's something of a singularity. The Spirits manifest well here because of that, and the hallucinations are you feeling their influence. Sometimes they do it intentionally, to help push a person closer to their destiny...but others are malicious and only seek to cause pain. The only question that's really left for you to answer is what kind of hallucinations yours were; there, more than anything I could tell you, is where your answers lie."

Longshot cast his gaze over to Smellerbee, and the tomboy's eyes flitted over to meet the archer's; he held it for a few seconds, mulling over Huu's words before allowing a faint, contemplative frown to pull on the corners of his mouth. On the surface, both of their hallucinations had been nothing but foul, perverted parodies of the real Jet and Smellerbee, mimicking the real things articulately while still remaining as twisted doppelgangers. The thought of the ZomBee's startling, accurate representation of Smellerbee, how she mimicked all of those adorable quirks, made Longshot's lips curl into a snarl and stilled the fluttering in his throat for a few heartbeats. That abomination had been the embodiment of cruelty, of shoving the archer's failures in his face.

However...

His scowl softened, and he drew a deep, calming breath. He realized that, when his thoughts had turned to the ZomBee, he'd averted his gaze from Smellerbee - staring instead at the writhing, pepper-brown bark of the tree's roots, his cheeks hot with shame he'd already overcome. Sure, the loathsome abhorrence had been obscene simply by course of nature, but in the end, it was the ZomBee's words that had inspired Longshot to confront his guilt for giving up on Smellerbee at Lake Laogai, to repair their relationship; the same had worked for the swordswoman herself, and the thought of her - her essence, her being - jolted the flutterflies in Longshot's throat to beat their wings once again.

If that didn't count as a shove in the proper direction of destiny, he didn't know what would. Slowly, he turned his gaze to Smellerbee again, only to find her staring at him with a lopsided grin on her lips. He could see in her face how she'd run the same formula in her head, and had been rewarded with the same conclusion; the joint discovery made him grin a little bit as well, and joy washed over him like a spray of water on the beach.

"Maybe they messed up," Smellerbee said, shrugging, not breaking Longshot's gaze. "But I think you're right. I think it was a push. A push together, a push onward."

"You think that the Spirits had good intentions, then, even though your visions were nightmarish?" Huu asked, cocking his head to the side. Longshot broke Smellerbee's gaze only for a moment to glance at him, but instead of curiosity, the old man simply fixed them with a wise grin - as if he'd already known the answer from the start, and had simply waited for the Freedom Fighters to find it on their own.

"Yeah, they were kind of crap so far as tact goes...but Longshot's vision helped him with his guilt issues, and mine helped put being Jet's successor into perspective." Longshot turned back to Smellerbee, his face heating up again - but not from shame this time, as the flutterflies worked their magic with increased fervency. She, too, brought her gaze back to him, bowing her head just the tiniest bit, a bashful grin tugging on her face, her cheeks turning a faint shade of pink. "And both together kinda helped...repair us."

Huu clapped his hands on his thighs and leaned back, sighing. "And there you go. You had the answers all along...all Ah needed to do was point you in the right direction."

With that, their meeting - the entire journey through the swamp - met proper closure. Smellerbee took Longshot by the hand and clambered to her feet; he followed suit, dusting off the rear of his pants as he did so, grateful to be standing again (hard, gnarled tree bark didn't do much good for the posterior), yet yearning for more - to be able to sit next to Smellerbee, to find out more about himself, about her - about _them_. This journey of discoveries, so short and yet so vast, had done much more than he ever could have accomplished on his own. He could sense that their time at the swamp had drawn to a close - that it was time to traverse the rest of the way and emerge on the other side, smooth and absolved of the guilt that had followed him in here.

So, in perfect time with Smellerbee, Longshot turned to face Huu and bowed, their right hands curled into a fist and covered by the left.

"Thanks, Huu," Smellerbee murmured, standing upright again. "For helping us, in more ways than one."

"Ain't a problem." Huu shrugged. "For any friend of the Avatar...any enemy of the Fire Nation...anybody who's willing to listen to the Earth and the Spirits. I'll have Tho and Due show you a shortcut to get out on the side of Omashu; from there, it's only a few days' journey, Ah reckon."

Longshot tipped the brim of his hat upward and fixed Huu with an appreciative nod; with that, he turned and began to jog down the banyan tree's roots, his feet clomping against the bark, the impact of each step jarring up to his knees, the wind sheering his face, the sound of Smellerbee's lighter footsteps on his tail.

Time to move on.

_**Where Words Fail**_

**Book Three: A Test of Faith**

**End**


End file.
